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ZULEIKA  DOBSON 


BY   THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

The  Happy  Hypocrite :  A  Fairy  Tale  for 
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ZULEIKA  DOBSON 


OR 


An  Oxford  Love  Story 


BY 

MAX  BEERBOHM 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
MCMXII 


Copyright,  191  i,  by 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


J.  J.  LITTLE  &  rVES  COMPANY 

Printers,  Ne*  York  City 


ILLI 
ALMAE    MATRI 


ZULEIKA  DOBSON 


I 


That  old  bell,  presage  of  a  train,  had  just 
sounded  through  Oxford  station;  and  the  under- 
graduates who  were  waiting  there,  gay  figures 
in  tweed  or  flannel,  moved  to  the  margin  of  the 
platform  and  gazed  idly  up  the  line.  Young 
and  careless,  in  the  glow  of  the  afternoon  sun- 
shine, they  struck  a  sharp  note  of  incongruity 
with  the  worn  boards  they  stood  on,  with  the 
fading  signals  and  grey  eternal  walls  of  that  an- 
tique station,  which,  familiar  to  them  and  insig- 
nificant, does  yet  whisper  to  the  tourist  the  last 
enchantments  of  the  Middle  Age. 

At  the  door  of  the  first-class  waiting-room, 
aloof  and  venerable,  stood  the  Warden  of  Judas. 
An  ebon  pillar  of  tradition  seemed  he,  in  his 
garb  of  old-fashioned  cleric.  Aloft,  between  the 
wide  brim  of  his  silk  hat  and  the  white  extent 
of  his  shirt-front,  appeared  those  eyes  which 
hawks,  that  nose  which  eagles,  had  often  envied. 
He  supported  his  years  on  an  ebon  stick.  He 
alone  was  worthy  of  the  background. 

Came  a  whistle  from  the  distance.  The  breast 
of  an  engine  was  descried,  and  a  long  train  curving 

7 


8  ZULFIKA    DOBSON 

after  it,  under  ;i  lliglit  of  smoke.  It  grew  and 
grew.  Louder  and  louder,  its  noise  foreran  it. 
It  became  a  furious,  enormous  monster,  and,  with 
an  instinct  for  safety,  all  men  receded  from  the 
platform's  margin.  (Yet  came  there  with  it,  un- 
known to  them,  a  danger  far  more  terrible  than 
itself.)  Into  the  station  it  came  blustering,  with 
cloud  and  clangour.  Ere  it  had  yet  stopped,  the 
door  of  one  carriage  flew  open,  and  from  it,  in  a 
white  travelling  dress,  in  a  toque  a-twinkle  with 
fine  diamonds,  a  lithe  and  radiant  creature  slipped 
nimbly  down  to  the  platform. 

A  cynosure  indeed !  A  hundred  eyes  were  fixed 
on  her,  and  half  as  many  hearts  lost  to  her.  The 
Warden  of  Judas  himself  had  mounted  on  his 
nose  a  pair  of  black-rimmed  glasses.  Him  espy- 
ing, the  nymph  darted  in  his  direction.  The 
throng  made  way  for  her.    She  was  at  his  side. 

"Grandpapa!"  she  cried,  and  kissed  the  old 
man  on  either  cheek.  (Not  a  youth  there  but 
■would  have  bartered  fifty  years  of  his  future  for 
that  salute.) 

"My  dear  Zuleika,"  he  said,  "welcome  to  Ox- 
ford!    Have  you  no  luggage?" 

"Heaps!"  she  answered.  "And  a  maid  who 
will  find  it." 

"Then,"  said  the  Warden,  "let  us  drive 
straight  to  College."  He  offered  her  his  arm,  and 
they  proceeded  slowly  to  the  entrance.  She 
chatted  gaily,  blushing  not  in  the  long  avenue  of 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  9 

eyes  she  passed  through.  All  the  youths,  under 
her  spell,  were  now  quite  oblivious  of  the  rela- 
tives they  had  come  to  meet.  Parents,  sisters, 
cousins,  ran  unclaimed  about  the  platform.  Un- 
dutiful,  all  the  youths  were  forming  a  serried 
suite  to  their  enchantress.  In  silence  they  fol- 
lowed her.  They  saw  her  leap  into  the  Warden's 
landau,  they  saw  the  Warden  seat  himself  upon 
her  left.  Nor  was  it  until  the  landau  was  lost 
to  sight  that  they  turned — how  slowly,  and  with 
how  bad  a  grace ! — to  look  for  their  relatives. 

Through  those  slums  which  connect  Oxford 
with  the  world,  the  landau  rolled  on  towards 
Judas.  Not  many  youths  occurred,  for  nearly  all 
— it  was  the  Monday  of  Eights  Week — were 
down  by  the  river,  cheering  the  crews.  There 
did,  however,  come  spurring  by,  on  a  polo-pony, 
a  very  splendid  youth.  His  straw  hat  was  en- 
circled with  a  riband  of  blue  and  white,  and  he 
raised  it  to  the  Warden. 

"That,"  said  the  Warden,  "is  the  Duke  of 
Dorset,  a  member  of  my  College.  He  dines  at 
my  table  to-night." 

Zuleika,  turning  to  regard  his  Grace,  saw  that 
he  had  not  reined  in  and  was  not  even  glancing 
back  at  her  over  his  shoulder.  She  gave  a  little 
start  of  dismay,  but  scarcely  had  her  lips  pouted 
ere  they  curved  to  a  smile — a  smile  with  no 
malice  in  its  corners. 

As  the  landau  rolled  into  "the  Corn,"  another 


lo  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

youth — a  pcclcstriaii,  aiiJ  very  different — saluted 
ihe  W'arilen.  lie  wore  a  black  jacket,  rusty  and 
amorphous.  His  trousers  were  too  short,  and  he 
himself  was  too  short:  almost  a  dwarf.  His  face 
was  as  plain  as  his  gait  was  undistinguished.  He 
squinted  behind  spectacles. 

"And  who  is  that?"  asked  Zuleika. 

A  deep  flush  overspread  the  cheek  of  the  War- 
den. "That,"  he  said,  "is  also  a  member  of 
Judas.      His  name,  I  believe,  is  Noaks." 

"Is  he  dining  with  us  to-night?"  asked  Zuleika. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  the  Warden.  "Most  de- 
cidedly not." 

Noaks.  unlike  the  Duke,  had  stopped  for  an 
ardent  retrospect.  He  gazed  till  the  landau  was 
out  of  his  short  sight;  then,  sighing,  resumed  his 
solitary  walk. 

The  landau  was  rolling  into  "the  Broad,"  over 
that  ground  which  had  once  blackened  under  the 
fagots  lit  for  Latimer  and  Ridley.  It  rolled  past 
the  portals  of  Balliol  and  of  Trinity,  past  the 
Ashmolcan.  From  those  pedestals  which  inter- 
sperse the  railing  of  the  Sheldonian,  the  high 
grim  busts  of  the  Roman  Emperors  stared  down 
at  the  fair  stranger  in  the  equipage.  Zuleika 
returned  their  stare  with  but  a  casual  glance.  The 
inanimate  had  little  charm  for  her. 

A  moment  later,  a  certain  old  don  emerged 
from  Blackwell's,  where  he  had  been  buying 
books.     Looking  across  the  road,  he  saw,  to  his 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  ii 

amazement,  great  beads  of  perspiration  glisten- 
ing on  the  brows  of  those  Emperors.  He  trem- 
bled, and  hurried  away.  That  evening,  in  Com- 
mon Room,  he  told  what  he  had  seen;  and  no 
amount  of  polite  scepticism  would  convince  him 
that  it  was  but  the  hallucination  of  one  who  had 
been  reading  too  much  Mommsen.  He  persisted 
that  he  had  seen  what  he  described.  It  was  not 
until  two  days  had  elapsed  that  some  credence 
was  accorded  him. 

Yes,  as  the  landau  rolled  by,  sweat  started 
from  the  brows  of  the  Emperors.  They,  at  least, 
foresaw  the  peril  that  was  overhanging  Oxford, 
and  they  gave  such  warning  as  they  could.  Let 
that  be  remembered  to  their  credit.  Let  that  in- 
cline us  to  think  more  gently  of  them.  In  their 
lives  we  know,  they  were  infamous,  some  of  them 
— "nihil  non  commiserunt  stupri,  saevitiae,  im- 
pietatis."  But  are  they  too  little  punished,  after 
all?  Here  in  Oxford,  exposed  eternally  and  in- 
exorably to  heat  and  frost,  to  the  four  winds  that 
lash  them  and  the  rains  that  wear  them  away, 
they  are  expiating,  in  effigy,  the  abominations  of 
their  pride  and  cruelty  and  lust.  Who  were 
lechers,  they  are  without  bodies;  who  were  ty- 
rants, they  are  crowned  never  but  with  crowns  of 
snow;  who  made  themselves  even  with  the  gods, 
they  are  by  American  visitors  frequently  mistaken 
for  the  Twelve  Apostles.  It  is  but  a  little  way 
down  the  road  that  the  two  Bishops  perished  for 


12  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

their  laith,  and  even  now  we  do  never  pass  the 
spot  without  a  tear  for  them.  Yet  how  quickly 
they  died  in  the  flames!  To  these  Emperors,  for 
whom  none  weeps,  time  will  give  no  surcease. 
Surely,  it  is  sign  of  some  grace  in  them  that  they 
rejoiced  not,  this  bright  afternoon,  in  the  evil  that 
was  to  befall  the  city  of  their  penance. 


II 


The  sun  streamed  through  the  bay-window  of 
a  "best"  bedroom  In  the  Warden's  house,  and 
glorified  the  pale  crayon-portraits  on  the  wall,  the 
dimity  curtains,  the  old  fresh  chintz.  He  Invaded 
the  many  trunks  which — all  painted  Z.  D. — 
gaped,  in  various  stages  of  excavation,  around  the 
room.  The  doors  of  the  huge  wardrobe  stood, 
like  the  doors  of  Janus'  temple  in  time  of  war, 
majestically  open;  and  the  sun  seized  this  oppor- 
tunity of  exploring  the  mahogany  recesses.  But 
the  carpet,  which  had  faded  under  his  imme- 
morial visitations,  was  now  almost  entirely  hid- 
den from  him,  hidden  under  layers  of  fair  fine 
linen,  layers  of  silk,  brocade,  satin,  chiffon,  mus- 
lin. All  the  colours  of  the  rainbow,  materialised 
by  modistes,  were  there.  Stacked  on  chairs  were 
I  know  not  what  of  sachets,  glove-cases,  fan-cases. 
There  were  Innumerable  packages  in  silver-paper 
and  pink  ribands.  There  was  a  pyramid  of  band- 
boxes. There  was  a  virgin  forest  of  boot-trees. 
And  rustling  quickly  hither  and  thither,  in  and 
out  of  this  profusion,  with  armfuls  of  finery,  was 
an  obviously  French  maid.  Alert,  unerring,  like 
a  swallow  she  dipped  and  darted.  Nothing  es- 
13 


14  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

capcd  her,  and  slic  never  rested.  She  had  the  air 
ot  the  born  unpacker — swift  and  firm,  yet  withal 
tender.  Scarce  had  her  arms  been  laden  but 
their  loads  were  lying  lightly  between  shelves  or 
tightly  in  drawers.  To  calculate,  catch,  distribute, 
seemed  in  her  hut  a  single  process.  She  was  one 
of  those  who  are  born  to  make  chaos  cosmic. 

Insomuch  that  ere  the  loud  chapel-clock  tolled 
another  hour  all  the  trunks  had  been  sent  empty 
away.  The  carpet  was  unflecked  by  any  scrap  of 
silver-paper.  From  the  mantelpiece,  photographs 
of  Zuleika  surveyed  the  room  with  a  possessive 
air,  Zuleika's  pincushion,  a-brlstle  with  new  pins, 
lay  on  the  dimity-flounced  toilet-table,  and  round 
it  stood  a  multitude  of  multiform  glass  vessels, 
domed,  all  of  them,  with  dull  gold,  on  which 
Z.  D.,  in  zianites  and  diamonds,  was  encrusted. 
On  a  small  table  stood  a  great  casket  of  mala- 
chite, initialled  in  like  fashion.  On  another  small 
table  stood  Zuleika's  library.  Both  books  were 
in  covers  of  dull  gold.  On  the  back  of  one  cover 
BRADSHAW,  in  beryls,  was  encrusted;  on  the  back 
of  the  other,  A. B.C.  GUIDE,  in  amethysts,  beryls, 
chrysoprases,  and  garnets.  And  Zuleika's  great 
cheval-glass  stood  ready  to  reflect  her.  Always 
it  travelled  with  her,  in  a  great  case  specially 
made  for  it.  It  was  framed  in  ivory,  and  of 
fluted  ivory  were  the  slim  columns  it  swung  be- 
tween. Of  gold  w^ere  its  twin  sconces,  and  four* 
tall  tapers  stood  in  each  of  them. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  15 

The  door  opened,  and  the  Warden,  with  hos- 
pitable words,  left  his  grand-daughter  at  the 
threshold. 

Zuleika  wandered  to  her  mirror.  "Undress 
me,  Melisande,"  she  said.  Like  all  who  are  wont 
to  appear  by  night  before  the  public,  she  had  the 
habit  of  resting  towards  sunset. 

Presently  Melisande  withdrew.  Her  mistress, 
in  a  white  peignoir  tied  with  a  blue  sash,  lay  in  a 
great  chintz  chair,  gazing  out  of  the  bay-window. 
The  quadrangle  below  was  very  beautiful,  with 
its  walls  of  rugged  grey,  its  cloisters,  its  grass 
carpet.  But  to  her  it  was  of  no  more  interest 
than  if  it  had  been  the  rattling  court-yard  to  one 
of  those  hotels  in  which  she  spent  her  life.  She 
saw  it,  but  heeded  it  not.  She  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing of  herself,  or  of  something  she  desired,  or  of 
some  one  she  had  never  met.  There  was  ennui, 
and  there  was  wistfulness,  in  her  gaze.  Yet  one 
would  have  guessed  these  things  to  be  transient — 
to  be  no  more  than  the  little  shadows  that  some- 
times pass  between  a  bright  mirror  and  the  bright- 
ness it  reflects. 

Zuleika  was  not  strictly  beautiful.  Her  eyes 
were  a  trifle  large,  and  their  lashes  longer  than 
they  need  have  been.  An  anarchy  of  small  curls 
was  her  chevelure,  a  dark  upland  of  misrule, 
every  hair  asserting  its  rights  over  a  not  discred- 
itable brow.  For  the  rest,  her  features  were  not 
at  all  original.  They  seemed  to  have  been  derived 


1 6  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

rather  from  a  gallimaufry  of  familiar  models. 
From  Madame  la  Marquise  dc  Saint-Ouen  came 
the  shapely  tilt  of  the  nose.  The  mouth  was  a 
mere  replica  of  Cupid's  bow,  lacquered  scarlet 
and  strung  with  the  littlest  pearls.  No  apple- 
tree,  no  wall  of  peaches,  had  not  been  robbed,  nor 
any  Tyrian  rose-garden,  for  the  glory  of  Miss 
Dobson's  cheeks.  Her  neck  was  imitation-mar- 
ble. Her  hands  and  feet  were  of  very  mean  pro- 
portions.    She  had  no  waist  to  speak  of. 

Yet,  though  a  Greek  would  have  railed  at  her 
asymmetry,  and  an  Elizabethan  have  called  her 
"gipsy,"  Miss  Dobson  now,  in  the  midst  of  the 
Edvardian  Era,  was  the  toast  of  two  hemi- 
spheres. Late  in  her  'teens  she  had  become  an 
orphan  and  a  governess.  Her  grandfather  had 
refused  her  appeal  for  a  home  or  an  allowance, 
on  the  ground  that  he  would  not  be  burdened 
with  the  upshot  of  a  marriage  which  he  had  once 
forbidden  and  not  yet  forgiven.  Lately,  how- 
ever, prompted  by  curiosity  or  by  remorse,  he 
had  asked  her  to  spend  a  week  or  so  of  his  de- 
clining years  with  him.  And  she,  "resting"  be- 
tween two  engagements — one  at  Hammerstein's 
Victoria,  N.Y.C.,  the  other  at  the  Folies  Bergeres, 
Paris — and  having  never  been  in  Oxford,  had  so 
far  let  bygones  be  bygones  as  to  come  and  gratify 
the  old  man's  whim. 

It  may  be  that  she  still  resented  his  indifference 
to   those   early   struggles  which,   even   now,    she 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  17 

shuddered  to  recall.  For  a  governess'  life  she  had 
been,  Indeed,  notably  unfit.  Hard  she  had  thought 
It,  that  penury  should  force  her  back  Into  the 
school-room  she  was  scarce  out  of,  there  to 
champion  the  sums  and  maps  and  conjugations 
she  had  never  tried  to  master.  Hating  her  work, 
she  had  failed  signally  to  pick  up  any  learning 
from  her  little  pupils,  and  had  been  driven  from 
house  to  house,  a  sullen  and  most  ineffectual 
maiden.  The  sequence  of  her  situations  was  the 
swifter  by  reason  of  her  pretty  face.  Was  there 
a  grown-up  son,  always  he  fell  In  love  with  her, 
and  she  would  let  his  eyes  trifle  boldly  with  hers 
across  the  dinner-table.  When  he  offered  her  his 
hand,  she  would  refuse  It — not  because  she 
"knew  her  place,"  but  because  she  did  not  love 
him.  Even  had  she  been  a  good  teacher,  her 
presence  could  not  have  been  tolerated  thereafter. 
Her  corded  trunk,  heavier  by  another  packet  of 
billets-doux  and  a  month's  salary  in  advance,  was 
soon  carried  up  the  stairs  of  some  other  house. 

It  chanced  that  she  came,  at  length,  to  be 
governess  in  a  large  family  that  had  Gibbs  for 
Its  name  and  Notting  Hill  for  Its  background. 
Edward,  the  eldest  son,  was  a  clerk  in  the  city, 
who  spent  his  evenings  in  the  practice  of  amateur 
conjuring.  He  was  a  freckled  youth,  with  hair 
that  bristled  in  places  where  It  should  have  lain 
smooth,  and  he  fell  in  love  with  Zulelka  duly,  at 
first  sight,  during  high-tea.     In  the  course  of  the 


i8  ZULI  IKA    DOBSON 

evening,  he  sought  to  win  her  admiration  by  a 
disphiy  ol  all  his  tricks.  These  were  familiar  to 
this  household,  and  the  children  had  been  sent  to 
bed,  the  mother  was  dozing,  long  before  the 
seance  was  at  an  end.  But  Miss  Dobson,  unac- 
customed to  any  gaieties,  sat  fascinated  by  the 
young  man's  sleight  of  hand,  marvelling  that  a 
top-hat  could  hold  so  many  gold-fish,  and  a  hand- 
kerchief turn  so  swiftly  into  a  silver  florin.  All 
that  night,  she  lay  wide  awake,  haunted  by  the 
miracles  he  had  wrought.  Next  evening,  when 
she  asked  him  to  repeat  them,  "Nay,"  he  whis- 
pered, "I  cannot  bear  to  deceive  the  girl  I  love. 
Permit  me  to  explain  the  tricks."  So  he  explained 
them.  His  eyes  sought  hers  across  the  bowl  of 
gold-fish,  his  fingers  trembled  as  he  taught  her 
to  manipulate  the  magic  canister.  One  by  one, 
she  mastered  the  paltry  secrets.  Her  respect  for 
him  waned  with  every  revelation.  He  compli- 
mented her  on  her  skill.  "I  could  not  do  It  more 
neatly  myself!"  he  said.  "Oh,  dear  Miss  Dob- 
son,  will  you  but  accept  my  hand,  all  these  things 
shall  be  yours — the  cards,  the  canister,  the  gold- 
fish, the  demon  egg-cup — all  yours!"  Zuleika, 
with  ravishing  coyness,  answered  that  if  he  would 
give  her  them  now,  she  would  "think  it  over." 
The  swain  consented,  and  at  bed-time  she  retired 
with  the  gift  under  her  arm.  In  the  light  of  her 
bedroom  candle  Marguerite  hung  not  In  greater 
ecstasy  over  the  jewel-casket  than  hung  Zuleika 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  19 

over  the  box  of  tricks.  She  clasped  her  hands 
over  the  tremendous  possibihtles  It  held  for  her — 
manumission  from  her  bondage,  wealth,  fame, 
power.  Stealthily,  so  soon  as  the  house  slum- 
bered, she  packed  her  small  outfit,  embedding 
therein  the  precious  gift.  Noiselessly,  she  shut 
the  lid  of  her  trunk,  corded  it,  shouldered  it, 
stole  down  the  stairs  with  it.  Outside — how  that 
chain  had  grated!  and  her  shoulder,  how  it  was 
aching! — she  soon  found  a  cab.  She  took  a 
night's  sanctuary  in  some  railway-hotel.  Next 
day,  she  moved  Into  a  small  room  in  a  lodging- 
house  off  the  Edgware  Road,  and  there  for  a 
whole  week  she  was  sedulous  In  the  practice  of 
her  tricks.  Then  she  inscribed  her  name  on  the 
books  of  a  "Juvenile  Party  Entertainments 
Agency." 

The  Christmas  holidays  were  at  hand,  and  be- 
fore long  she  got  an  engagement.  It  was  a  great 
evening  for  her.  Her  repertory  was,  it  must  be 
confessed,  old  and  obvious;  but  the  children.  In 
deference  to  their  hostess,  pretended  not  to  know 
how  the  tricks  were  done,  and  assumed  their  pret- 
tiest airs  of  wonder  and  delight.  One  of  them 
even  pretended  to  be  frightened,  and  was  led 
howling  from  the  room.  In  fact,  the  whole  thing 
went  off  splendidly.  The  hostess  was  charmed, 
and  told  Zuleika  that  a  glass  of  lemonade  would 
be  served  to  her  In  the  hall.  Other  engagements 
soon  followed.     Zuleika  was  very,   very  happy. 


20  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

1  cannot  claim  for  licr  that  she  had  a  {:;cnuinc 
passion  for  her  art.  The  true  conjurer  iinds  his 
guerdon  in  the  consciousness  of  work  done  per- 
fectly and  for  its  own  sake.  Lucre  and  applause 
are  not  necessary  to  him.  If  he  were  set  down, 
with  the  materials  of  his  art,  on  a  desert  island, 
he  would  yet  be  quite  happy.  He  would  not 
cease  to  produce  the  barber's-pole  from  his 
mouth.  To  the  indifferent  winds  he  would  still 
speak  his  patter,  and  even  in  the  last  throes  of 
starvation  would  not  eat  his  live  rabbit  or  his 
gold-fish.  Zulcika,  on  a  desert  island,  would 
have  spent  most  of  her  time  in  looking  for  a 
man's  foot-print.  She  was,  indeed,  far  too  human 
a  creature  to  care  much  for  art.  I  do  not  say 
that  she  took  her  work  lightly.  She  thought  she 
had  genius,  and  she  liked  to  be  told  that  this 
was  so.  But  mainly  she  loved  her  work  as  a 
means  of  mere  self-display.  The  frank  admira- 
tion which,  into  whatsoever  house  she  entered, 
the  grown-up  sons  flashed  on  her;  their  eagerness 
to  see  her  to  the  door;  their  impressive  way  of 
putting  her  into  her  omnibus — these  were  the 
things  she  revelled  in.  She  was  a  nymph  to 
whom  men's  admiration  was  the  greater  part  of 
life.  By  day,  whenever  she  went  into  the  streets, 
she  was  conscious  that  no  man  passed  her  with- 
out a  stare;  and  this  consciousness  gave  a  sharp 
zest  to  her  outings.  Sometimes  she  was  followed 
to  her  door — crude  flattery  which   she  was  too 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  21 

innocent  to  fear.  Even  when  she  went  hito  the 
haberdasher's  to  make  some  little  purchase  of 
tape  or  riband,  or  into  the  grocer's — for  she  was 
an  epicure  in  her  humble  way — to  buy  a  tin  of 
potted  meat  for  her  supper,  the  homage  of  the 
young  men  behind  the  counter  did  flatter  and 
exhilarate  her.  As  the  homage  of  men  became 
for  her,  more  and  more,  a  matter  of  course,  the 
more  subtly  necessary  was  it  to  her  happiness. 
The  more  she  won  of  it,  the  more  she  treasured 
it.  She  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  it  saved  her 
from  any  moment  of  regret  that  she  had  neither 
home  nor  friends.  For  her  the  streets  that  lay 
around  her  had  no  squalor,  since  she  paced  them 
always  in  the  gold  nimbus  of  her  fascinations. 
Her  bedroom  seemed  not  mean  nor  lonely  to  her, 
since  the  little  square  of  glass,  nailed  above  the 
wash-stand,  was  ever  there  to  reflect  her  face. 
Thereinto,  indeed,  she  was  ever  peering.  She 
would  droop  her  head  from  side  to  side,  she 
would  bend  it  forward  and  see  herself  from  be- 
neath her  eyelashes,  then  tilt  It  back  and  watch 
herself  over  her  supercilious  chin.  And  she  would 
smile,  frown,  pout,  languish — let  all  the  emotions 
hover  upon  her  face;  and  always  she  seemed  to 
herself  lovelier  than  she  had  ever  been. 

Yet  was  there  nothing  Narclsslne  in  her  spirit. 
Her  love  for  her  own  Image  was  not  cold 
aesthetlclsm.  She  valued  that  image  not  for  its 
own  sake,  but  for  sake  of  the  glory  it  always  won 


22  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

tor  her.  In  the  little  remote  music-hall,  where 
she  was  soon  appearing  nightly  as  an  "early 
turn,"  she  reaped  glory  in  a  nightly  harvest.  She 
could  feel  that  all  the  gallery-boys,  because  of 
her,  were  scornful  of  the  sweethearts  wedged  be- 
tween them,  and  she  knew  that  she  had  but  to  say 
*'Will  any  gentleman  in  the  audience  be  so  good 
as  to  lend  me  his  hat?"  for  the  stalls  to  rise  as 
one  man  and  rush  towards  the  platform.  But 
greater  things  were  in  store  for  her.  She  was 
engaged  at  two  halls  in  the  West  End.  Her 
horizon  was  fast  receding  and  expanding.  Hom- 
age became  nightly  tangible  in  bouquets,  rings, 
brooches — things  acceptable  and  (luckier  than 
their  donors)  accepted.  Even  Sunday  was  not 
barren  for  Zulelka :  modish  hostesses  gave  her 
postprandially  to  their  guests.  Came  that  Sunday 
night,  notanda  candidissimo  calculo!  when  she 
received  certain  guttural  compliments  which  made 
absolute  her  vogue  and  enabled  her  to  command, 
thenceforth,  whatever  terms  she  asked  for. 

Already,  indeed,  she  was  rich.  She  was  living 
at  the  most  exorbitant  hotel  in  all  Mayfair.  She 
had  Innumerable  gowns  and  no  necessity  to  buy 
jewels;  and  she  also  had,  which  pleased  her  most, 
the  fine  cheval-glass  I  have  described.  At  the 
close  of  the  Season,  Paris  claimed  her  for  a 
month's  engagement.  Paris  saw  her  and  was 
prostrate.  Boldini  did  a  portrait  of  her.  Jules 
Bloch  wrote  a  song  about  her;  and  this,   for  a 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  23 

whole  month,  was  howled  up  and  down  the  cob- 
bled alleys  of  Montmartre.  And  all  the  little 
dandles  were  mad  for  "la  Zuleika."  The  jewel- 
lers of  the  Rue  de  la  Palx  soon  had  nothing  left 
to  put  in  their  windows — everything  had  been 
bought  for  "la  Zuleika."  For  a  whole  month, 
baccarat  was  not  played  at  the  Jockey  Club — 
every  member  had  succumbed  to  a  nobler  passion. 
For  a  whole  month,  the  whole  demi-monde  was 
forgotten  for  one  English  virgin.  Never,  even 
in  Paris,  had  a  woman  triumphed  so.  When  the 
day  came  for  her  departure,  the  city  wore  such 
an  air  of  sullen  mourning  as  it  had  not  worn  since 
the  Prussians  marched  to  its  Elysee.  Zuleika, 
quite  untouched,  would  not  linger  in  the  conquered 
city.  Agents  had  come  to  her  from  every  capital 
in  Europe,  and,  for  a  year,  she  ranged,  in  tri- 
umphal nomady,  from  one  capital  to  another. 
In  Berlin,  every  night,  the  students  escorted  her 
home  with  torches.  Prince  Vierfiinfsechs-Siebe- 
nachtneun  offered  her  his  hand,  and  was  con- 
demned by  the  Kaiser  to  six  months'  confinement 
in  his  little  castle.  In  Yildiz  Kiosk,  the  tyrant 
who  still  throve  there  conferred  on  her  the  Order 
of  Chastity,  and  offered  her  the  central  couch  in 
his  seraglio.  She  gave  her  performance  in  the 
Quirinal,  and,  from  the  Vatican,  the  Pope 
launched  against  her  a  Bull  which  fell  utterly  flat. 
In  Petersburg,  the  Grand  Duke  Salamander 
Salamandrovitch    fell    enamoured    of    her.      Of 


24  ZULKIKA    DOBSON 

every  article  in  the  apparatus  of  her  conjuring- 
tricks  he  caused  a  replica  to  be  made  in  finest 
gold.  These  treasures  he  presented  to  her  in 
that  great  malachite  casket  which  now  stood  on 
the  little  table  in  her  room;  and  thenceforth  it 
was  with  these  that  she  performed  her  wonders. 
They  did  not  mark  the  limit  of  the  Grand  Duke's 
generosity.  He  was  for  bestowing  on  Zuleika 
the  half  of  his  immensurable  estates.  The  Grand 
Duchess  appealed  to  the  Tzar.  Zuleika  was  con- 
ducted across  the  frontier,  by  an  escort  of  love- 
sick Cossacks.  On  the  Sunday  before  she  left 
Madrid,  a  great  bull-fight  was  held  in  her  honour. 
Fifteen  bulls  received  the  conp-de-grace,  and 
Alvarez,  the  matador  of  matadors,  died  in  the 
arena  with  her  name  on  his  lips.  He  had  tried 
to  kill  the  last  bull  without  taking  his  eyes  off 
la  d'n-'tna  sehorita.  A  prettier  compliment  had 
never  been  paid  her,  and  she  was  Immensely 
pleased  with  It.  For  that  matter,  she  was  im- 
mensely pleased  with  everything.  She  moved 
proudly  to  the  Incessant  music  of  a  pasan,  aye!  of 
a  psean  that  was  always  crescendo. 

Its  echoes  followed  her  when  she  crossed  the 
Atlantic,  till  they  were  lost  In  the  louder,  deeper, 
more  blatant  paean  that  rose  for  her  from  the 
shores  beyond.  All  the  stops  of  that  "mighty 
organ,  many-piped,"  the  New  York  press,  were 
pulled  out  simultaneously,  as  far  as  they  could 
be  pulled,  in  Zuleika's  honour.     She  delighted  In 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  25 

the  din.  She  read  every  line  that  was  printed 
about  her,  tasting  her  triumph  as  she  had  never 
tasted  it  before.  And  how  she  revelled  in  the 
Brobdingnagian  drawings  of  her,  which,  printed 
in  nineteen  colours,  towered  between  the  columns 
or  sprawled  across  them!  There  she  was,  meas- 
uring herself  back  to  back  with  the  Statue  of  Lib- 
erty; scudding  through  the  firmament  on  a  comet, 
whilst  a  crowd  of  tiny  men  in  evening-dress  stared 
up  at  her  from  the  terrestrial  globe;  peering 
through  a  microscope  held  by  Cupid  over  a  dimin- 
utive Uncle  Sam;  teaching  the  American  Eagle 
to  stand  on  its  head;  and  doing  a  hundred-and- 
one  other  things — whatever  suggested  itself  to 
the  fancy  of  native  art.  And  through  all  this 
iridescent  maze  of  symbolism  were  scattered 
many  little  slabs  of  realism.  At  home,  on  the 
street,  Zuleika  was  the  smiling  target  of  all  snap- 
shooters,  and  all  the  snap-shots  were  snapped  up 
by  the  press  and  reproduced  with  annotations: 
Zuleika  Dobson  walking  on  Broadway  in  the 
sables  gifted  her  by  Grand  Duke  Salamander — 
she  says  "You  can  bounce  blizzards  in  them"; 
Zuleika  Dobson  yawning  over  a  love-letter  from 
millionaire  Edelweiss;  relishing  a  cup  of  clam- 
broth — she  says  "They  don't  use  clams  out 
there";  ordering  her  maid  to  fix  her  a  warm  bath; 
finding  a  split  in  the  gloves  she  has  just  drawn  on 
before  starting  for  the  musicale  given  in  her 
honour  by  Mrs.  Suetonius  X.  Meistersinger,  the 


26  ZULKIKA    DOBSON 

most  exclusive  woman  in  New  York;  chatting  at 
the  telephone  to  Miss  Camllle  Van  Spook,  the 
best-born  girl  in  New  York;  laughing  over  the 
recollection  of  a  compliment  made  her  by  George 
Abimelcch  Post,  the  best-groomed  man  in  New 
York;  meditating  a  new  trick;  admonishing  a 
waiter  who  has  upset  a  cocktail  over  her  skirt; 
having  herself  manicured;  drinking  tea  in  bed. 
Thus  was  Zuleika  enabled  daily  to  be,  as  one 
might  say,  a  spectator  of  her  own  wonderful  life. 
On  her  departure  from  New  York,  the  papers 
spoke  no  more  than  the  truth  when  they  said  she 
had  had  "a  lovely  time."  The  further  she  went 
West — millionaire  Edelweiss  had  loaned  her  his 
private  car — the  lovelier  her  time  was.  Chicago 
drowned  the  echoes  of  New  York;  final  Frisco 
dwarfed  the  headlines  of  Chicago.  Like  one  of 
its  own  prairie-fires,  she  swept  the  country  from 
end  to  end.  Then  she  swept  back,  and  sailed  for 
England.  She  was  to  return  for  a  second  season 
in  the  coming  Fall.  At  present,  she  was,  as  I 
have  said,  "resting." 

As  she  sat  here  in  the  bay-window  of  her  room, 
she  was  not  reviewing  the  splendid  pageant  of 
her  past.  She  was  a  young  person  whose  reveries 
never  were  in  retrospect.  For  her  the  past  was 
no  treasury  of  distinct  memories,  all  hoarded  and 
classified,  some  brighter  than  others  and  more 
highly  valued.  All  memories  were  for  her  but  as 
the  motes  in  one  fused  radiance  that  followed  her 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  27 

and  made  more  luminous  the  pathway  of  her 
future.  She  was  always  looking  forward.  She 
was  looking  forward  now — that  shade  of  ennui 
had  passed  from  her  face — to  the  week  she  was 
to  spend  in  Oxford.  A  new  city  was  a  new  toy 
to  her,  and — for  it  was  youth's  homage  that  she 
loved  best — this  city  of  youths  was  a  toy  after  her 
own  heart. 

Aye,  and  it  was  youths  who  gave  homage  to 
her  most  freely.  She  was  of  that  high-stepping 
and  flamboyant  type  that  captivates  youth  most 
surely.  Old  men  and  men  of  middle  age  admired 
her,  but  she  had  not  that  flower-like  quality  of 
shyness  and  helplessness,  that  look  of  innocence, 
so  dear  to  men  who  carry  life's  secrets  in  their 
heads.  Yet  Zuleika  was  very  innocent,  really. 
She  was  as  pure  as  that  young  shepherdess  Mar- 
cella,  who,  all  unguarded,  roved  the  mountains 
and  was  by  all  the  shepherds  adored.  Like  Mar- 
cella,  she  had  given  her  heart  to  no  man,  had 
preferred  none.  Youths  were  reputed  to  have 
died  for  love  of  her,  as  Chrysostom  died  for 
love  of  the  shepherdess;  and  she,  like  the  shep- 
herdess, had  shed  no  tear.  When  Chrysostom 
was  lying  on  his  bier  in  the  valley,  and  Marcella 
looked  down  from  the  high  rock,  Ambrosio,  the 
dead  man's  comrade,  cried  out  on  her,  upbraiding 
her  with  bitter  words — "Oh  basilisk  of  our  moun- 
tains!" Nor  do  I  think  Ambrosio  spoke  too 
strongly.     Marcella  cared  nothing  for  men's  ad- 


2  8  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

miration,  and  yet,  instead  of  retiring  to  one  of 
those  nunneries  which  are  founded  for  her  kind, 
she  chose  to  rove  the  mountains,  causing  despair 
to  all  the  shepherds.  Zuleika,  with  her  peculiar 
temperament,  would  have  gone  mad  in  a  nun- 
nery. "But,"  you  may  argue,  "ought  not  she 
to  have  taken  the  veil,  even  at  the  cost  of  her 
reason,  rather  than  cause  so  much  despair  in  the 
world?  If  Marcella  was  a  basilisk,  as  you  seem 
to  think,  how  about  Miss  Dobson?"  Ah,  but 
Marcella  knew  quite  well,  boasted  even,  that  she 
never  would  or  could  love  any  man.  Zuleika, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  a  woman  of  really  pas- 
sionate fibre.  She  may  not  have  had  that  con- 
scious, separate,  and  quite  explicit  desire  to  be  a 
mother  with  which  modern  playwrights  credit 
every  unmated  member  of  her  sex.  But  she  did 
know  that  she  could  love.  And,  surely,  no  woman 
who  knows  that  of  herself  can  be  rightly  censured 
for  not  recluding  herself  from  the  world:  it  is 
only  wcrmen  without  the  power  to  love  who  have 
no  right  to  provoke  men's  love. 

Though  Zuleika  had  never  given  her  heart, 
strong  in  her  were  the  desire  and  the  need  that 
it  should  be  given.  Whithersoever  she  had  fared, 
she  had  seen  nothing  but  youths  fatuously  pros- 
trate to  her — not  one  upright  figure  which  she 
could  respect.  There  were  the  middle-aged  men, 
the  old  men,  who  did  not  bow  down  to  her;  but 
from  middle-age,   as   from   eld,   she   had   a   san- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  29 

gulne  aversion.  She  could  love  none  but  a  youth. 
Nor — though  she  herself,  womanly,  would 
utterly  abase  herself  before  her  ideal — could  she 
love  one  who  fell  prone  before  her.  And  before 
her  all  youths  always  did  fall  prone.  She  was 
an  empress,  and  all  youths  were  her  slaves. 
Their  bondage  delighted  her,  as  I  have  said. 
But  no  empress  who  has  any  pride  can  adore  one 
of  her  slaves.  Whom,  then,  could  proud  Zuleika 
adore?  It  was  a  question  which  sometimes 
troubled  her.  There  were  even  moments  when, 
looking  into  her  cheval-glass,  she  cried  out 
against  that  arrangement  in  comely  lines  and 
tints  which  got  for  her  the  dulia  she  delighted  in. 
To  be  able  to  love  once — would  not  that  be 
better  than  all  the  homage  in  the  world?  But 
would  she  ever  meet  whom,  looking  up  to  him, 
she  could  love — she,  the  omnisubjugant?  Would 
she  ever,  ever  meet  him? 

It  was  when  she  wondered  thus,  that  the  wist- 
fulness  came  into  her  eyes.  Even  now,  as  she 
sat  by  the  window,  that  shadow  returned  to 
them.  She  was  wondering,  shyly,  had  she  met 
him  at  length?  That  young  equestrian  who  had 
not  turned  to  look  at  her;  whom  she  was  to  meet 
at  dinner  to-night  .  .  .  was  it  he?  The  ends  of 
her  blue  sash  lay  across  her  lap,  and  she  was 
lazily  unravelling  their  fringes.  "Blue  and 
white!"  she  remembered.  "They  were  the  col- 
ours he  wore  round  his  hat."     And  she  gave  a 


30  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

little  huigh  of  coquetry.     She  huiL:;hcd,  and,  long 
after,  her  lips  were  still  parted  in  a  smile. 

So  did  she  sit,  smiling,  wondering,  with  the 
fringes  of  her  sash  between  her  fingers,  while 
the  sun  sank  behind  the  opposite  wall  of  the 
quadrangle,  and  the  shadows  crept  out  across  the 
grass,  thirsty  for  the  dew. 


Ill 


The  clock  in  the  Warden's  drawing-room  had 
just  struck  eight,  and  already  the  ducal  feet  were 
beautiful  on  the  white  bearskin  hearthrug.  So 
slim  and  long  were  they,  of  instep  so  nobly 
arched,  that  only  with  a  pair  of  glazed  ox-tongues 
on  a  breakfast-table  were  they  comparable.  In- 
comparable quite,  the  figure  and  face  and  vesture 
of  him  who  ended  in  them. 

The  Warden  was  talking  to  him,  with  all  the 
deference  of  elderly  commoner  to  patrician  boy. 
The  other  guests — an  Oriel  don  and  his  wife — 
were  listening  with  earnest  smile  and  submissive 
droop,  at  a  slight  distance.  Now  and  again,  to 
put  themselves  at  their  ease,  they  exchanged  in 
undertone  a  word  or  two  about  the  weather. 

"The  young  lady  whom  you  may  have  noticed 
with  me,"  the  Warden  was  saying,  "is  my 
orphaned  grand-daughter."  (The  wife  of  the 
Oriel  don  discarded  her  smile,  and  sighed,  with 
a  glance  at  the  Duke,  who  was  himself  an 
orphan.)  "She  has  come  to  stay  with  me." 
(The  Duke  glanced  quickly  round  the  room.) 
"I  cannot  think  why  she  is  not  down  yet."  (The 
Oriel  don  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  clock,  as  though 

31 


32  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

he  suspected  it  of  being  fast.)  "I  must  ask  you 
to  forgive  her.  She  appears  to  be  a  bright,  pleas- 
ant young  woman." 

"Married?"  asked  the  Duke. 

"No,"  said  the  Warden;  and  a  cloud  of  an- 
noyance crossed  the  boy's  face.  "No;  she  de- 
votes her  life  entirely  to  good  works." 

"A  hospital  nurse?"  the  Duke  murmured. 

"No,  Zuleika's  appointed  task  is  to  induce  de- 
lightful wonder  rather  than  to  alleviate  pain. 
She  performs  conjuring-tricks." 

"Not — not  Miss  Zuleika  Dobson?"  cried  the 
Duke. 

"Ah  yes.  I  forgot  that  she  had  achieved  some 
fame  in  the  outer  world.  Perhaps  she  has 
already  met  you?" 

"Never,"  said  the  young  man  coldly.  "But  of 
course  I  have  heard  of  Miss  Dobson.  I  did  not 
know  she  was  related  to  you." 

The  Duke  had  an  intense  horror  of  unmarried 
girls.  All  his  vacations  were  spent  in  eluding 
them  and  their  chaperons.  That  he  should  be 
confronted  with  one  of  them — with  such  an  one 
of  them! — in  Oxford,  seemed  to  him  sheer  vio- 
lation of  sanctuary.  The  tone,  therefore,  in 
which  he  said  "I  shall  be  charmed,"  in  answer  to 
the  Warden's  request  that  he  would  take  Zuleika 
into  dinner,  was  very  glacial.  So  was  his  gaze 
when,  a  moment  later,  the  young  lady  made  her 
entry. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  33 

"She  did  not  look  like  an  orphan,"  said  the 
wife  of  the  Oriel  don,  subsequently,  on  the  way 
home.  The  criticism  was  a  just  one.  Zuleika 
would  have  looked  singular  in  one  of  those  lowly 
double-files  of  straw-bonnets  and  drab  cloaks 
which  are  so  steadying  a  feature  of  our  social 
system.  Tall  and  lissom,  she  was  sheathed  from 
the  bosom  downwards  in  flamingo  silk,  and  she 
was  liberally  festooned  with  emeralds.  Her  dark 
hair  was  not  even  strained  back  from  her  fore- 
head and  behind  her  ears,  as  an  orphan's  should 
be.  Parted  somewhere  at  the  side,  it  fell  in  an 
avalanche  of  curls  upon  one  eyebrow.  From  her 
right  ear  drooped  heavily  a  black  pearl,  from  her 
left  a  pink;  and  their  difference  gave  an  odd,  be- 
wildering witchery  to  the  little  face  between. 

Was  the  young  Duke  bewitched?  Instantly, 
utterly.  But  none  could  have  guessed  as  much 
from  his  cold  stare,  his  easy  and  impassive  bow. 
Throughout  dinner,  none  guessed  that  his  shirt- 
front  was  but  the  screen  of  a  fierce  warfare 
waged  between  pride  and  passion.  Zuleika,  at 
the  foot  of  the  table,  fondly  supposed  him  indif- 
ferent to  her.  Though  he  sat  on  her  right,  not 
one  word  or  glance  would  he  give  her.  All  his 
conversation  was  addressed  to  the  unassuming 
lady  who  sat  on  his  other  side,  next  to  the  War- 
den. Her  he  edified  and  flustered  beyond  meas- 
ure by  his  insistent  courtesy.  Her  husband,  alone 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  was  mortified  by 


34  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

Ills  utter  failure  to  engage  Zulelka  In  small-talk. 
Zuleika  was  sitting  with  her  profile  turned  to  him 
— the  profile  with  the  pink  pearl — and  was 
gazing  full  at  the  young  Duke.  She  was  hardly 
more  affable  than  a  cameo.  "Yes,"  "No,"  "I 
don't  know,"  were  the  only  answers  she  would 
vouchsafe  to  his  questions.  A  vague  "Oh  really?" 
was  all  he  got  for  his  timid  little  offerings  of 
information.  In  vain  he  started  the  topic  of 
modern  conjuring-tricks  as  compared  with  the 
conjuring-tricks  performed  by  the  ancient  Egyp- 
tians. Zuleika  did  not  even  say  "Oh  really?" 
when  he  told  her  about  the  metamorphosis  of  the 
bulls  in  the  Temple  of  Osiris.  He  primed  him- 
self with  a  glass  of  sherry,  cleared  his  throat. 
"And  Vvhat,"  he  asked,  with  a  note  of  firmness, 
"did  you  think  of  our  cousins  across  the  water?" 
Zuleika  said  "Yes;"  and  then  he  gave  in.  Nor 
was  she  conscious  that  he  ceased  talking  to  her. 
At  intervals  throughout  the  rest  of  dinner,  she 
murmured  "Yes,"  and  "No,"  and  "Oh  really?" 
though  the  poor  little  don  was  now  listening 
silently  to  the  Duke  and  the  Warden. 

She  was  in  a  trance  of  sheer  happiness.  At 
last,  she  thought,  her  hope  was  fulfilled — that 
hope  whicli,  although  she  had  seldom  remem- 
bered it  in  the  joy  of  her  constant  triumphs,  had 
been  always  lurking  In  her,  lying  near  to  her 
heart  and  chafing  her,  like  the  shift  of  sackcloth 
which  that  young  brilliant  girl,  loved  and  lost  of 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  3s 

Giacopone  di  Todi,  wore  always  In  secret  sub- 
mission to  her  own  soul,  under  the  fair  soft  robes 
and  the  rubles  men  saw  on  her.  At  last,  here 
was  the  youth  who  would  not  bow  down  to  her; 
whom,  looking  up  to  him,  she  could  adore.  She 
ate  and  drank  automatically,  never  taking  her 
gaze  from  him.  She  felt  not  one  touch  of  pique 
at  his  behaviour.  She  was  tremulous  with  a  joy 
that  was  new  to  her,  greater  than  any  joy  she 
had  known.  Her  soul  was  as  a  flower  In  Its 
opetide.  She  was  In  love.  Rapt,  she  studied 
every  lineament  of  the  pale  and  perfect  face — 
the  brow  from  which  bronze-coloured  hair  rose 
in  tiers  of  burnished  ripples;  the  large  steel-col- 
oured eyes,  with  their  carven  lids;  the  carven 
nose,  and  the  plastic  lips.  She  noted  how  long 
and  slim  were  his  fingers,  and  how  slender  his 
wrists.  She  noted  the  glint  cast  by  the  candles 
upon  his  shirt-front.  The  two  large  white  pearls 
there  seemed  to  her  symbols  of  his  nature.  They 
were  like  two  moons:  cold,  remote,  radiant.  Even 
when  she  gazed  at  the  Duke's  face,  she  was  aware 
of  them  In  her  vision. 

Nor  was  the  Duke  unconscious,  as  he  seemed 
to  be,  of  her  scrutiny.  Though  he  kept  his  head 
averse,  he  knew  that  always  her  eyes  were  watch- 
ing him.  Obliquely,  he  saw  them;  saw,  too,  the 
contour  of  the  face,  and  the  black  pearl  and  the 
pink;  could  not  blind  himself,  try  as  he  would. 
And  he  knew  that  he  was  In  love. 


36  ZULEIKA    DOBSOX 

Like  Zulcika  herself,  this  young  Duke  was  in 
love  for  the  iirst  time.  Wooed  though  he  had 
been  by  almost  as  many  maidens  as  she  by  youths, 
his  heart,  like  hers,  had  remained  cold.  But  he 
had  never  felt,  as  she  had,  the  desire  to  love.  He 
was  not  now  rejoicing,  as  she  was,  in  the  sensation 
of  first  love;  nay,  he  was  furiously  mortified  by 
it,  and  struggled  with  all  his  might  against  it. 
He  had  always  fancied  himself  secure  against  any 
so  vulgar  peril;  always  fancied  that  by  him  at 
least,  the  proud  old  motto  of  his  family — "Pas  si 
bete" — would  not  be  belied.  And  I  daresay,  in- 
deed, that  had  he  never  met  Zuleika,  the  irre- 
sistible, he  would  have  lived,  and  at  a  very  ripe 
old  age  died,  a  dandy  without  reproach.  For  in 
him  the  dandiacal  temper  had  been  absolute  hith- 
erto, quite  untainted  and  unruffled.  He  was  too 
much  concerned  with  his  own  perfection  ever  to 
think  of  admiring  any  one  else.  Different  from 
Zuleika,  he  cared  for  his  wardrobe  and  his  toilet- 
table  not  as  a  means  to  making  others  admire 
him  the  more,  but  merely  as  a  means  through 
which  he  could  intensify,  a  ritual  in  which  to 
express  and  realise,  his  own  idolatry.  At  Eton 
he  had  been  called  "Peacock,"  and  this  nick-name 
had  followed  him  up  to  Oxford.  It  was  not 
wholly  apposite,  however.  For,  whereas  the  pea- 
cock is  a  fool  even  among  birds,  the  Duke  had 
already  taken  (besides  a  particularly  brilliant 
First  in  Mods)  the  Stanhope,  the  Newdigate,  the 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  37 

Lothian,  and  the  Gaisford  Prize  for  Greek  Verse. 
And  these  things  he  had  achieved  currente  calamo, 
"wielding  his  pen,"  as  Scott  said  of  Byron,  "with 
the  easy  neghgence  of  a  nobleman."  He  was  now 
in  his  third  year  of  residence,  and  was  reading, 
a  little,  for  Literae  Humaniores.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  but  for  his  untimely  death  he  would 
have  taken  a  particularly  brilliant  First  in  that 
school  also. 

For  the  rest,  he  had  many  accomplishments. 
He  was  adroit  in  the  killing  of  all  birds  and  fishes, 
stags  and  foxes.  He  played  polo,  cricket,  racquets, 
chess,  and  billiards  as  well  as  such  things  can  be 
played.  He  was  fluent  in  all  modern  languages, 
had  a  very  real  talent  in  water-colour,  and  was 
accounted,  by  those  who  had  had  the  privilege 
of  hearing  him,  the  best  amateur  pianist  on  this 
side  of  the  Tweed.  Little  wonder,  then,  that  he 
was  idolised  by  the  undergraduates  of  his  day. 
He  did  not,  however,  honour  many  of  them  with 
his  friendship.  He  had  a  theoretic  liking  for  them 
as  a  class,  as  the  "young  barbarians  all  at  play" 
in  that  little  antique  city;  but  individually  they 
jarred  on  him,  and  he  saw  little  of  them.  Yet  he 
sympathised  with  them  always,  and,  on  occasion, 
would  actively  take  their  part  against  the  dons. 
In  the  middle  of  his  second  year,  he  had  gone  so 
far  that  a  College  Meeting  had  to  be  held,  and  he 
was  sent  down  for  the  rest  of  term.  The  Warden 
placed   his   own   landau    at   the   disposal   of   the 


38  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

illustrious  young  exile,  who  therein  was  driven 
to  the  station,  followed  by  a  long,  vociferous  pro- 
cession of  undergraduates  in  cabs.  Now,  it  hap- 
pened that  this  was  a  time  of  political  excitement 
in  London.  The  Liberals,  who  were  in  power, 
had  passed  through  the  House  of  Commons  a 
measure  more  than  usually  socialistic;  and  this 
measure  was  down  for  its  second  reading  in  the 
Lords  on  the  very  day  that  the  Duke  left  Oxford, 
an  exile.  It  was  but  a  few  weeks  since  he  had 
taken  his  seat  in  the  Lords;  and  this  afternoon, 
for  the  want  of  anything  better  to  do,  he  strayed 
in.  The  Leader  of  the  House  was  already  dron- 
ing his  speech  for  the  bill,  and  the  Duke  found 
himself  on  one  of  the  opposite  benches.  There 
sat  his  compeers,  sullenly  waiting  to  vote  for  a 
bill  which  every  one  of  them  detested.  As  the 
speaker  subsided,  the  Duke,  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing,  rose.  He  made  a  long  speech  against  the 
bill.  His  gibes  at  the  Government  were  so  scath- 
ing, so  utterly  destructive  his  criticism  of  the  bill 
itself,  so  lofty  and  so  irresistible  the  flights  of  his 
eloquence,  that,  when  he  resumed  his  seat,  there 
Avas  only  one  course  left  to  the  Leader  of  the 
House.  He  rose  and,  in  a  few  husky  phrases, 
moved  that  the  bill  "be  read  this  day  six  months." 
All  England  rang  with  the  name  of  the  young 
Duke.  He  himself  seemed  to  be  the  one  person 
unmoved  by  his  exploit.  He  did  not  re-appear  in 
the  Upper  Chamber,  and  was  heard  to  speak  in 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  39 

slighting  terms  of  Its  architecture,  as  well  as  of 
its  upholstery.  Nevertheless,  the  Prime  Minister 
became  so  nervous  that  he  procured  for  him,  a 
month  later,  the  Sovereign's  offer  of  a  Garter 
which  had  just  fallen  vacant.  The  Duke  accepted 
it.  He  was,  I  understand,  the  only  undergraduate 
on  whom  this  Order  had  ever  been  conferred. 
He  was  very  much  pleased  with  the  insignia,  and 
when,  on  great  occasions,  he  wore  them,  no  one 
dared  say  that  the  Prime  Minister's  choice  was 
not  fully  justified.  But  you  must  not  imagine  that 
he  cared  for  them  as  symbols  of  achievement  and 
power.  The  dark  blue  riband,  and  the  star  scin- 
tillating to  eight  points,  the  heavy  mantle  of  blue 
velvet,  with  its  lining  of  taffeta  and  shoulder-knots 
of  white  satin,  the  crimson  surcoat,  the  great  em- 
bullioned  tassels,  and  the  chain  of  linked  gold, 
and  the  plumes  of  ostrich  and  heron  uprising  from 
the  black  velvet  hat — these  things  had  for  him 
little  significance  save  as  a  fine  setting,  a  finer  set- 
ting than  the  most  elaborate  smoklng-sult,  for  that 
perfection  of  aspect  which  the  gods  had  given  him. 
This  was  indeed  the  gift  he  valued  beyond  all 
others.  He  knew  well,  however,  that  women  care 
little  for  a  man's  appearance,  and  that  what  they 
seek  in  a  man  Is  strength  of  character,  and  rank, 
and  wealth.  These  three  gifts  the  Duke  had  in 
a  high  degree,  and  he  was  by  women  much  courted 
because  of  them.  Conscious  that  every  maiden 
he  met  was  eager  to  be  his  Duchess,  he  had  as- 


40  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

sumed  always  a  manner  of  high  austerity  among 
maidens,  and  even  if  he  had  wished  to  flirt  with 
Zuleika  he  would  hardly  have  known  how  to  do 
it.  But  he  did  not  wish  to  flirt  with  her.  That 
she  had  bewitched  him  did  but  make  it  the  more 
needful  that  he  should  shun  all  converse  with  her. 
It  was  imperative  that  he  should  banish  her  from 
his  mind,  quickly.  He  must  not  dilute  his  own 
soul's  essence.  He  must  not  surrender  to  any 
passion  his  dandihood.  The  dandy  must  be  celi- 
bate, cloistral;  is,  indeed,  but  a  monk  with  a 
mirror  for  beads  and  breviary — an  anchorite, 
mortifying  his  soul  that  his  body  may  be  perfect- 
Till  he  met  Zuleika,  the  Duke  had  not  known  the 
meaning  of  temptation.  He  fought  now,  a  St. 
Anthony,  against  the  apparition.  He  would  not 
look  at  her,  and  he  hated  her.  He  loved  her,  and 
he  could  not  help  seeing  her.  The  black  pearl  and 
the  pink  seemed  to  dangle  ever  nearer  and  clearer 
to  him,  mocking  him  and  beguiling.  Inexpellable 
\vas  her  image. 

So  fierce  was  the  conflict  in  him  that  his  outward 
nonchalance  gradually  gave  way.  As  dinner  drew 
to  its  close,  his  conversation  with  the  wife  of  the 
Oriel  don  flagged  and  halted.  He  sank,  at  length, 
into  a  deep  silence.  He  sat  with  downcast  eyes, 
utterly  distracted. 

Suddenly,  something  fell,  plump !  into  the  dark 
whirlpool   of   his   thoughts.      He   started.      The 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  41 

Warden  was  leaning  forward,  had  just  said  some- 
thing to  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  asked  the  Duke.  Dessert, 
he  noticed,  was  on  the  table,  and  he  was  paring 
an  apple.  The  Oriel  don  was  looking  at  him  with 
sympathy,  as  at  one  who  had  swooned  and  was 
just  "coming  to." 

"Is  it  true,  my  dear  Duke,"  the  Warden  re- 
peated, "that  you  have  been  persuaded  to  play 
to-morrow  evening  at  the  Judas  concert?" 

"Ah  yes,  I  am  going  to  play  something." 

Zuleika  bent  suddenly  forward,  addressed  him. 
"Oh,"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands  beneath  her 
chin,  "will  you  let  me  come  and  turn  over  the 
leaves  for  you?" 

He  looked  her  full  in  the  face.  It  was  like  see- 
ing suddenly  at  close  quarters  some  great  bright 
monument  that  one  has  long  known  only  as  a 
sun-caught  speck  in  the  distance.  He  saw  the 
large  violet  eyes  open  to  him,  and  their  lashes 
curling  to  him;  the  vivid  parted  lips;  and  the 
black  pearl,  and  the  pink. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  he  murmured,  in  a  voice 
which  sounded  to  him  quite  far  away.  "But  I 
always  play  without  notes." 

Zuleika  blushed.  Not  with  shame,  but  with 
delirious  pleasure.  For  that  snub  she  would  just 
then  have  bartered  all  the  homage  she  had 
hoarded.     This,  she  felt,  was  the  climax.     She 


42  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

would  not  outstay  It.  She  rose,  smiling  to  the 
witc  of  the  Oriel  don.  Every  one  rose.  The  Oriel 
don  held  open  the  door,  and  the  two  ladies  passed 
out  of  the  room. 

The  Duke  drew  out  his  cigarette  case.  As  he 
looked  down  at  the  cigarettes,  he  was  vaguely 
conscious  of  some  strange  phenomenon  somewhere 
between  them  and  his  eyes.  Foredone  by  the  agi- 
tation of  the  past  hour,  he  did  not  at  once  realise 
what  it  was  that  he  saw.  His  impression  was  of 
something  in  bad  taste,  some  discord  in  his  cos- 
tume ...  a  black  pearl  and  a  pink  pearl  in  his 
shirt-front ! 

Just  for  a  moment,  absurdly  over-estimating 
poor  Zuleika's  skill,  he  supposed  himself  a  victim 
of  legerdemain.  Another  moment,  and  the  Import 
of  the  studs  revealed  itself.  He  staggered  up  from 
his  chair,  covering  his  breast  with  one  arm,  and 
murmured  that  he  was  faint.  As  he  hurried  from 
the  room,  the  Oriel  don  was  pouring  out  a  tumbler 
of  water  and  suggesting  burnt  feathers.  The 
Warden,  solicitous,  followed  him  into  the  hall. 
He  snatched  up  his  hat,  gasping  that  he  had 
spent  a  delightful  evening — was  very  sorry — was 
subject  to  these  attacks.  Once  outside,  he  took 
frankly  to  his  heels. 

At  the  corner  of  the  Broad,  he  looked  back  over 
his  shoulder.  He  had  half  expected  a  scarlet 
figure  skimming  in  pursuit.  There  was  nothing. 
He  halted.     Before  him,   the   Broad  lay  empty 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  43 

beneath  the  moon.    He  went  slowly,  mechanically, 
to  his  rooms. 

The  high  grim  busts  of  the  Emperors  stared 
down  at  him,  their  faces  more  than  ever  tragically 
cavernous  and  distorted.  They  saw  and  read  in 
that  moonlight  the  symbols  on  his  breast.  As  he 
stood  on  his  doorstep,  waiting  for  the  door  to 
be  opened,  he  must  have  seemed  to  them  a  thing 
for  infinite  compassion.  For  were  they  not  privy 
to  the  doom  that  the  morrow,  or  the  morrow's 
morrow,  held  for  him — held  not  indeed  for  him 
alone,  yet  for  him  especially,  as  it  were,  and  for 
him  most  lamentably? 


ly 


The  breakfast-things  were  not  yet  cleared  away. 
A  plate  freaked  with  fine  strains  of  marmalade,  an 
empty  toast-rack,  a  broken  roll — these  and  other 
things  bore  witness  to  a  day  Inaugurated  In  the 
right  spirit. 

Away  from  them,  reclining  along  his  window- 
seat,  was  the  Duke.  Blue  spirals  rose  from  his 
cigarette,  nothing  in  the  still  air  to  trouble  them. 
From  their  railing,  across  the  road,  the  Emperors 
gazed  at  him. 

For  a  young  man,  sleep  is  a  sure  solvent  of 
distress.  There  whirls  not  for  him  in  the  night 
any  so  hideous  a  phantasmagoria  as  will  not  be- 
come, in  the  clarity  of  next  morning,  a  spruce  pro- 
cession for  him  to  lead.  Brief  the  vague  horror 
of  his  awakening;  memory  sweeps  back  to  him, 
and  he  sees  nothing  dreadful  after  all.  "Why 
not?"  is  the  sun's  bright  message  to  him,  and 
"Why  not  indeed?"  his  answer.  After  hours  of 
agony  and  doubt  prolonged  to  cock-crow,  sleep 
had  stolen  to  the  Duke's  bed-side.  He  awoke  late, 
with  a  heavy  sense  of  disaster;  but  lo !  when  he 
remembered,  everything  took  on  a  new  aspect. 

44 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  45 

He  was  in  love.  "Why  not?"  He  mocked  him- 
self for  the  morbid  vigil  he  had  spent  in  probing 
and  vainly  binding  the  wounds  of  his  false  pride. 
The  old  life  was  done  with.  He  laughed  as  he 
stepped  into  his  bath.  Why  should  the  disseizin 
of  his  soul  have  seemed  shameful  to  him?  He  had 
had  no  soul  till  it  passed  out  of  his  keeping.  His 
body  thrilled  to  the  cold  water,  his  soul  as  to  a 
new  sacrament.  He  was  in  love,  and  that  was  all 
he  wished  for.  .  .  There,  on  the  dressing-table, 
lay  the  two  studs,  visible  symbols  of  his  love. 
Dear  to  him,  now,  the  colours  of  them !  He  took 
them  in  his  hand,  one  by  one,  fondling  them.  He 
wished  he  could  wear  them  in  the  day-time;  but 
this,  of  course,  was  impossible.  His  toilet  fin- 
ished, he  dropped  them  into  the  left  pocket  of  his 
waist-coat. 

Therein,  near  to  his  heart,  they  were  lying 
now,  as  he  looked  out  at  the  changed  world — the 
world  that  had  become  Zuleika.  "Zuleika !"  his 
recurrent  murmur,  was  really  an  apostrophe  to 
the  whole  world. 

Piled  against  the  wall  were  certain  boxes  of 
black  japanned  tin,  which  had  just  been  sent  to 
him  from  London.  At  any  other  time  he  would 
certainly  not  have  left  them  unopened.  For  they 
contained  his  robes  of  the  Garter.  Thursday, 
the  day  after  to-morrow,  was  the  date  fixed  for 
the  investiture  of  a  foreign  king  who  was  now 
visiting  England;  and  the  full  chapter  of  Knights 


46  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

had  been  commanded  to  Windsor  for  the  cere- 
mony. Yesterday  the  Duke  had  looked  keenly 
forward  to  his  excursion.  It  was  only  in  those 
too  rarely  required  robes  that  he  had  the  sense 
of  being  fully  dressed.  But  to-day  not  a  thought 
had  he  of  them. 

Some  clock  clove  with  silver  the  stillness  of  the 
morning.  Ere  came  the  second  stroke,  another 
and  nearer  clock  was  striking.  And  now  there 
were  others  chiming  in.  The  air  was  confused 
with  the  sweet  babel  of  its  many  spires,  some  of 
them  booming  deep,  measured  sequences,  some 
tinkling  impatiently  and  outwitting  others  which 
had  begun  before  them.  And  when  this  anthem 
of  jealous  antiphonies  and  uneven  rhythms  had 
dwindled  quite  away  and  fainted  in  one  last  soli- 
tary note  of  silver,  there  started  somewhere  an- 
other sequence;  and  this,  almost  at  its  last  stroke, 
was  interrupted  by  yet  another,  which  went  on  to 
tell  the  hour  of  noon  in  its  own  w^ay,  quite  slowly 
and  significantly,  as  though  none  knew  it. 

And  now  Oxford  was  astir  with  footsteps  and 
laughter — the  laughter  and  quick  footsteps  of 
youths  released  from  lecture-rooms.  The  Duke 
shifted  from  the  window.  Somehow,  he  did  not 
care  to  be  observed,  though  it  was  usually  at  this 
hour  that  he  showed  himself  for  the  setting  of 
some  new  fashion  in  costume.  Many  an  under- 
graduate, looking  up,  missed  the  picture  in  the 
window-frame. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  47 

The  Duke  paced  to  and  fro,  smiling  ecstat- 
ically. He  took  the  two  studs  from  his  pocket 
and  gazed  at  them.  He  looked  in  the  glass,  as 
one  seeking  the  sympathy  of  a  familiar.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  he  turned  impatiently  aside. 
It  was  a  new  kind  of  sympathy  he  needed  to-day. 

The  front  door  slammed,  and  the  staircase 
creaked  to  the  ascent  of  two  heavy  boots.  The 
Duke  listened,  waited  irresolute.  The  boots 
passed  his  door,  were  already  clumping  up  the 
next  flight.  "Noaks!"  he  cried.  The  boots 
paused,  then  clumped  down  again.  The  door 
opened  and  disclosed  that  homely  figure  which 
Zuleika  had  seen  on  her  way  to  Judas. 

Sensitive  reader,  start  not  at  the  apparition! 
Oxford  is  a  plexus  of  anomalies.  These  two 
youths  were  (odd  as  it  may  seem  to  you)  subject 
to  the  same  Statutes,  afl'iliated  to  the  same  Col- 
lege, reading  for  the  same  School;  aye!  and 
though  the  one  had  inherited  half  a  score  of  noble 
and  castellated  roofs,  whose  mere  repairs  cost 
him  annually  thousands  and  thousands  of  pounds, 
and  the  other's  people  had  but  one  little  mean 
square  of  lead,  from  which  the  fireworks  of  the 
Crystal  Palace  were  clearly  visible  every  Thurs- 
day evening,  in  Oxford  one  roof  sheltered  both 
of  them.  Furthermore,  there  was  even  some 
measure  of  intimacy  between  them.  It  was  the 
Duke's  whim  to  condescend  further  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Noaks  than  in  any  other.     He  saw  in 


48  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

Noaks  Ills  own  foil  and  antithesis,  and  made  a 
point  of  walking  up  the  High  with  him  at  least 
once  in  every  term.  Noaks,  for  his  part,  regarded 
the  Duke  with  feehngs  mingled  of  idolatry  and 
disapproval.  The  Duke's  First  in  Mods  op- 
pressed him  (who,  by  dint  of  dogged  industry, 
had  scraped  a  Second)  more  than  all  the  other 
differences  between  them.  But  the  dullard's  envy 
of  brilliant  men  is  always  assuaged  by  the  sus- 
picion that  they  will  come  to  a  bad  end.  Noaks 
may  have  regarded  the  Duke  as  a  rather  pathetic 
figure,  on  the  whole. 

"Come  in,  Noaks,"  said  the  Duke.  "You  have 
been  to  a  lecture?" 

"Aristotle's  Politics,"  nodded  Noaks. 

"And  what  were  they?"  asked  the  Duke.  He 
was  eager  for  sympathy  in  his  love.  But  so  little 
used  was  he  to  seeking  sympathy  that  he  could 
not  unburden  himself.  He  temporised.  Noaks 
muttered  something  about  getting  back  to  work, 
and  fumbled  with  the  door-handle. 

"Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  don't  go,"  said  the  Duke. 
"Sit  down.  Our  Schools  don't  come  on  for  an- 
other year.  A  few  minutes  can't  make  a  differ- 
ence in  your  Class.  I  want  to — to  tell  you 
something,  Noaks.     Do  sit  down." 

Noaks  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  chair.  The 
Duke  leaned  against  the  mantel-piece,  facing  him. 
"I  suppose,  Noaks,"  he  said,  "you  have  never 
been  in  love." 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  49 

"Why  shouldn't  I  have  been  in  love?"  asked 
the  little  man,  angrily. 

"I  can't  imagine  you  in  love,"  said  the  Duke, 
smiling. 

"And  I  can't  imagine  you.  You're  too  pleased 
with  yourself,"  growled  Noaks. 

"Spur  your  imagination,  Noaks,"  said  his 
friend.     "I  am  in  love." 

"So  am  I,"  was  an  unexpected  answer,  and 
the  Duke  (whose  need  of  sympathy  was  too  new 
to  have  taught  him  sympathy  with  others) 
laughed  aloud.  "Whom  do  you  love?"  he  asked, 
throwing  himself  into  an  arm-chair. 

"I  don't  know  who  she  is,"  was  another  un- 
expected answer. 

"When  did  you  meet  her?"  asked  the  Duke. 
"Where?    What  did  you  say  to  her?" 

"Yesterday.  In  the  Corn.  I  didn't  say  any- 
thing to  her." 

"Is  she  beautiful?" 

"Yes.     What's  that  to  you?" 

"Dark  or  fair?" 

"She's  dark.  She  looks  like  a  foreigner.  She 
looks  like — like  one  of  those  photographs  in  the 
shop-windows." 

"A  rhapsody,  Noaks!  What  became  of  her? 
Was  she  alone?" 

"She  was  with  the  old  Warden,  in  his  car- 
riage." 

Zuleika — Noaks !    The  Duke  started,  as  at  an 


50  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

affront,  and  glared.  Next  moment,  he  saw  the 
absurdity  of  tfie  situation.  Me  relapsed  into  his 
chair,  smiling.  "She's  the  Warden's  niece,"  he 
said.     "I  dined  at  the  Warden's  last  night." 

Noaks  sat  still,  peering  across  at  the  Duke. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  was  resentful  of 
the  Duke's  great  elegance  and  average  stature, 
his  high  lineage  and  incomputable  wealth.  Hith- 
erto, these  things  had  been  too  remote  for  envy. 
But  now%  suddenly,  they  seemed  near  to  him — 
nearer  and  more  overpowering  than  the  First  in 
Mods  had  ever  been.  "And  of  course  she's  in 
love  with  you?"  he  snarled. 

Really,  this  was  for  the  Duke  a  new  issue.  So 
salient  was  his  own  passion  that  he  had  not  had 
time  to  wonder  whether  It  were  returned.  Zulel- 
ka's  behaviour  during  dinner.  .  .  But  that  was 
how  so  many  young  women  had  behaved.  It 
was  no  sign  of  disinterested  love.  It  might  mean 
merely.  .  .  Yet  no !  Surely,  looking  Into  her  eyes, 
he  had  seen  there  a  radiance  finer  than  could  have 
been  lit  by  common  ambition.  Love,  none  other, 
must  have  lit  In  those  purple  depths  the  torches 
whose  clear  flames  had  leapt  out  to  him.  She 
loved  him.  She,  the  beautiful,  the  wonderful,  had 
not  tried  to  conceal  her  love  for  him.  She  had 
shown  him  all — had  shown  all,  poor  darling!  only 
to  be  snubbed  by  a  prig,  driven  away  by  a  boor, 
fled  from  by  a  fool.  To  the  nethermost  corner 
of  his  soul,  he  cursed  himself  for  what  he  had 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  51 

done,  and  for  all  he  had  left  undone.  He  would 
go  to  her  on  his  knees.  He  would  implore  her  to 
impose  on  him  insufferable  penances.  There  was 
no  penance,  how  bittersweet  soever,  could  make 
him  a  little  worthy  of  her. 

"Come  in!"  he  cried  mechanically.  Entered 
the  landlady's  daughter. 

"A  lady  downstairs,"  she  said,  "asking  to  see 
your  Grace.  Says  she'll  step  round  again  later  if 
your  Grace  is  busy." 

"What  is  her  name?"  asked  the  Duke,  va- 
cantly. He  was  gazing  at  the  girl  with  pain-shot 
eyes. 

"Miss  Zuleika  Dobson,"  pronounced  the  girl. 

He  rose. 

"Show  Miss  Dobson  up,"  he  said. 

Noaks  had  darted  to  the  looking-glass  and  was 
smoothing  his  hair  with  a  tremulous,  enormous 
hand. 

"Go!"  said  the  Duke,  pointing  to  the  door. 
Noaks  went,  quickly.  Echoes  of  his  boots  fell 
from  the  upper  stairs  and  met  the  ascending 
susurrus  of  a  silk  skirt. 

The  lovers  met.  There  was  an  interchange  of 
ordinary  greetings:  from  the  Duke,  a  comment 
on  the  weather;  from  Zuleika,  a  hope  that  he 
was  well  again — they  had  been  so  sorry  to  lose 
him  last  night.  Then  came  a  pause.  The  land- 
lady's daughter  was  clearing  away  the  breakfast- 
things.     Zuleika  glanced  comprehensively  at  the 


52  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

room,  and  the  Duke  gazed  at  the  hcarthriif];.  The 
landlady's  daughter  clattered  out  with  her  irelght. 
They  were  alone. 

"How  pretty!"  said  Zulcika.  She  was  looking 
at  his  star  of  the  Garter,  which  sparkled  from  a 
litter  of  books  and  papers  on  a  small  side-table. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.     "It  Is  pretty,  isn't  it?" 

"Awfully  pretty!"  she  rejoined. 

This  dialogue  led  them  to  another  hollow 
pause.  The  Duke's  heart  beat  violently  within 
him.  Why  had  he  not  asked  her  to  take  the  star 
and  keep  it  as  a  gift?  Too  late  now!  Why  could 
he  not  throw  himself  at  her  feet?  Here  were 
two  beings,  lovers  of  each  other,  with  none  by. 
And  yet.  .  . 

She  was  examining  a  water-colour  on  the  wall, 
seemed  to  be  absorbed  by  It.  He  watched  her. 
She  was  even  lovelier  than  he  had  remembered; 
or  rather  her  loveliness  had  been,  in  some  subtle 
way,  transmuted.  Something  had  given  to  her  a 
graver,  nobler  beauty.  Last  night's  nymph  had 
become  the  Madonna  of  this  morning.  Despite 
her  dress,  which  was  of  a  tremendous  tartan,  she 
diffused  the  pale  authentic  radiance  of  a  spiritu- 
ality most  high,  most  simple.  The  Duke  won- 
dered where  lay  the  change  in  her.  He  could 
not  understand.  Suddenly  she  turned  to  him,  and 
he  understood.  No  longer  the  black  pearl  and 
the  pink,  but  two  white  pearls  ! .  .  .  He  thrilled  to 
his  heart's  core. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  53 

"I  hope,"  said  Zulelka,  "you  aren't  awfully 
vexed  with  me  for  coming  like  this?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  Duke.  "I  am  delighted 
to  see  you."  How  inadequate  the  words  sounded, 
how  formal  and  stupid! 

"The  fact  is,"  she  continued,  "I  don't  know  a 
soul  in  Oxford.  And  I  thought  perhaps  you'd 
giv^e  me  luncheon,  and  take  me  to  see  the  boat- 
races.     Will  you?" 

"I  shall  be  charmed,"  he  said,  pulling  the  bell- 
rope.  Poor  fool!  he  attributed  the  shade  of  dis- 
appointment on  Zuleika's  face  to  the  coldness  of 
his  tone.  He  would  dispel  that  shade.  He  would 
avow  himself.  He  would  leave  her  no  longer  in 
this  false  position.  So  soon  as  he  had  told  them 
about  the  meal,  he  would  proclaim  his  passion. 

The  bell  was  answered  by  the  landlady's 
daughter. 

"Miss  Dobson  will  stay  to  luncheon,"  said  the 
Duke.  The  girl  withdrew.  He  wished  he  could 
have  asked  her  not  to. 

He  steeled  himself.  "Miss  Dobson,"  he  said, 
"I  wish  to  apologise  to  you." 

Zulelka  looked  at  him  eagerly.  "You  can't 
give  me  luncheon?  You've  got  something  better 
to  do?" 

"No.  I  wish  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  my 
behaviour  last  night." 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive." 

*'There  is.     My  manners  v/ere  vile.     I  know 


54  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

well  what  happened.  Though  you,  too,  cannot 
have  forgotten,  I  won't  spare  myself  the  recital. 
You  were  my  hostess,  and  I  ignored  you.  Mag- 
nanimous, you  paid  mc  the  prettiest  compliment 
woman  ever  paid  to  man,  and  I  insulted  you. 
I  left  the  house  in  order  that  I  might  not  see  you 
again.  To  the  doorsteps  down  which  he  should 
have  kicked  me,  your  grandfather  followed  me 
with  words  of  kindliest  courtesy.  If  he  had  sped 
me  with  a  kick  so  skilful  that  my  skull  had  been 
shattered  on  the  kerb,  neither  would  he  have 
outstepped  those  bounds  set  to  the  conduct  of 
English  gentlemen,  nor  would  you  have  garnered 
more  than  a  trifle  on  account  of  your  proper 
reckoning.  I  do  not  say  that  you  are  the  first 
person  whom  I  have  wantonly  injured.  But  it  Is 
a  fact  that  I,  in  whom  pride  has  ever  been  the 
topmost  quality,  have  never  expressed  sorrow  to 
any  one  for  anything.  Thus,  I  might  urge  that 
my  present  abjectness  must  be  intolerably  painful 
to  me,  and  should  incline  you  to  forgive.  But 
such  an  argument  were  specious  merely.  I  will 
be  quite  frank  with  you.  I  will  confess  to  you 
that,  in  this  humbling  of  myself  before  you,  I 
take  a  pleasure  as  passionate  as  it  is  strange.  A 
confusion  of  feelings?  Yet  you,  with  a  woman's 
instinct,  will  have  already  caught  the  clue  to  it. 
It  needs  no  mirror  to  assure  me  that  the  clue  is 
here  for  you,  in  my  eyes.  It  needs  no  dictionary 
of  quotations  to  remind  me  that  the  eyes  are  the 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  55 

windows  of  the  soul.  And  I  know  that  from  two 
open  windows  my  soul  has  been  leaning  and  sig- 
nalling to  you,  in  a  code  far  more  definitive  and 
swifter  than  words  of  mine,  that  I  love  you." 

Zuleika,  listening  to  him,  had  grown  gradually 
paler  and  paler.  She  had  raised  her  hands  and 
cowered  as  though  he  were  about  to  strike  her. 
And  then,  as  he  pronounced  the  last  three  words, 
she  had  clasped  her  hands  to  her  face  and  with  a 
wild  sob  darted  away  from  him.  She  was  leaning 
now  against  the  window,  her  head  bowed  and  her 
shoulders  quivering. 

The  Duke  came  softly  behind  her.  "Why 
should  you  cry?  Why  should  you  turn  away  from 
me?  Did  I  frighten  you  with  the  suddenness  of 
my  words?  I  am  not  versed  in  the  tricks  of 
wooing.  I  should  have  been  more  patient.  But 
I  love  you  so  much  that  I  could  hardly  have 
waited.  A  secret  hope  that  you  loved  me  too  em- 
boldened me,  compelled  me.  You  do  love  me.  I 
know  it.  And,  knowing  it,  I  do  but  ask  you  to 
give  yourself  to  me,  to  be  my  wife.  Why  should 
you  cry?  Why  should  you  shrink  from  me? 
Dear,  if  there  were  anything.  .  .any  secret.  .  .if 
you  had  ever  loved  and  been  deceived,  do  you 
think  I  should  honour  you  the  less  deeply,  should 
not  cherish  you  the  more  tenderly?  Enough  for 
me,  that  you  are  mine.  Do  you  think  I  should 
ever  reproach  you  for  anything  that  may 
have " 


56  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

Zulelka  turned  on  him.  "How  dare  you?"  she 
gasped.     "How  dare  you  speak  to  me  like  that?" 

The  Duke  reeled  back.  Horror  had  come  into 
his  eyes.     "You  do  not  love  me!"  he  cried. 

''Love  you?"  she  retorted.     ''YouT' 

"You  no  longer  love  me.     Why?     Why?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  loved  me.  Don't  trifle  with  me.  You 
came  to  me  loving  me  with  all  your  heart." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Look  in  the  glass."  She  went  at  his  bidding. 
He  followed  her.  "You  see  them?"  he  said, 
after  a  long  pause.  Zuleika  nodded.  The  two 
pearls  quivered  to  her  nod. 

"They  were  white  when  you  came  to  me,"  he 
sighed.  "They  were  white  because  you  loved 
me.  From  them  it  was  that  I  knew  you  loved 
me  even  as  I  loved  you.  But  their  old  colours 
have  come  back  to  them.  That  is  how  I  know 
that  your  love  for  me  is  dead." 

Zuleika  stood  gazing  pensively,  twitching  the 
two  pearls  between  her  fingers.  Tears  gathered 
in  her  eyes.  She  met  the  reflection  of  her  lover's 
eyes,  and  her  tears  brimmed  over.  She  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 

Like  a  child's,  her  sobbing  ceased  quite  sud- 
denly. She  groped  for  her  handkerchief,  angrily 
dried  her  eyes,  and  straightened  and  smoothed 
herself. 

"Now  I'm  going,"  she  said. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  57 

"You  came  here  of  your  own  accord,  because 
you  loved  me,"  said  the  Duke.  "And  you  shall 
not  go  till  you  have  told  me  why  you  have  left 
off  loving  me." 

"How  did  you  know  I  loved  you?"  she  asked 
after  a  pause.  "How  did  you  know  I  hadn't 
simply  put  on  another  pair  of  ear-rings?" 

The  Duke,  with  a  melancholy  laugh,  drew  the 
two  studs  from  his  waistcoat-pocket.  "These  are 
the  studs  I  wore  last  night,"  he  said. 

Zuleika  gazed  at  them.  "I  see,"  she  said; 
then,  looking  up,  "When  did  they  become  like 
that?" 

"It  was  when  you  left  the  dining-room  that  I 
saw  the  change  in  them." 

"How  strange!  It  was  when  I  went  into  the 
drawing-room  that  I  noticed  mine.  I  was  looking 
in  the  glass,  and" —  She  started.  "Then  you 
were  in  love  with  me  last  night?" 

"I  began  to  be  in  love  with  you  from  the  mo- 
ment I  saw  you." 

"Then  how  could  you  have  behaved  as  you 
did?" 

"Because  I  was  a  pedant.  I  tried  to  ignore 
you,  as  pedants  always  do  try  to  ignore  any  fact 
they  cannot  fit  into  their  pet  system.  The  basis 
of  my  pet  system  was  celibacy.  I  don't  mean  the 
mere  state  of  being  a  bachelor.  I  mean  celibacy 
of  the  soul — egoism,  in  fact.  You  have  converted 
me  from  that.    I  am  now  a  confirmed  tuist." 


58  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

*'Ho\v  dared  you  insult  mc?"  she  cried,  with 
a  stamp  of  her  loot.  "How  dared  you  make  a 
fool  of  me  before  those  people?  Oh,  it  is  too 
infamous !" 

"I  have  already  asked  you  to  forgive  me  for 
that.     You  said  there  was  nothing  to  forgive." 

"I  didn't  dream  that  you  were  in  love  with 
me." 

"What  difference  can  that  make?" 

"All  the  difference!     All  the  difference  in  life!" 

"Sit  down!  You  bewilder  me,"  said  the  Duke. 
"Explain  yourself!"  he  commanded. 

"Isn't  that  rather  much  for  a  man  to  ask  of  a 
woman?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  no  experience  of 
women.  In  the  abstract,  it  seems  to  me  that  every 
man  has  a  right  to  some  explanation  from  the 
woman  who  has  ruined  his  life." 

"You  are  frightfully  sorry  for  yourself,"  said 
Zuleika,  with  a  bitter  laugh.  "Of  course  it  doesn't 
occur  to  you  that  /  am  at  all  to  be  pitied.  No ! 
you  are  blind  with  selfishness.  You  love  me — I 
don't  love  you:  that  is  all  you  can  realise.  Prob- 
ably you  think  you  are  the  first  man  who  has  ever 
fallen  on  such  a  plight." 

Said  the  Duke,  bowing  ov^er  a  deprecatory 
hand,  "If  there  were  to  pass  my  window  one 
tithe  of  them  whose  hearts  have  been  lost  to 
Miss  Dobson,  I  should  win  no  solace  from  that 
interminable  parade." 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  59 

Zulelka  blushed.  "Yet,"  she  said  more  gently, 
"be  sure  they  would  all  be  not  a  little  envious  of 
you!  Not  one  of  them  ever  touched  the  surface 
of  my  heart.  You  stirred  my  heart  to  its  very 
depths.  Yes,  you  made  me  love  you  madly.  The 
pearls  told  you  no  lie.  You  were  my  idol — the 
one  thing  in  the  wide  world  to  me.  You  were  so 
different  from  any  man  I  had  ever  seen  except  in 
dreams.  You  did  not  make  a  fool  of  yourself. 
I  admired  you.  I  respected  you.  I  was  all  afire 
with  adoration  of  you.  And  now,"  she  passed 
her  hand  across  her  eyes,  "now  it  is  all  over. 
The  idol  has  come  sliding  down  its  pedestal  to 
fawn  and  grovel  with  all  the  other  infatuates  in 
the  dust  about  my  feet." 

The  Duke  looked  thoughtfully  at  her.  "I 
thought,"  he  said,  "that  you  revelled  in  your 
power  over  men's  hearts.  I  had  always  heard 
that  you  lived  for  admiration." 

"Oh,"  said  Zuleika,  "of  course  I  like  being 
admired.  Oh  yes,  I  like  all  that  very  much  in- 
deed. In  a  way,  I  suppose,  I'm  even  pleased  that 
you  admire  me.  But  oh,  what  a  little  miserable 
pleasure  that  is  in  comparison  with  the  rapture  I 
have  forfeited!  I  had  never  known  the  rapture 
of  being  in  love.  I  had  longed  for  it,  but  I  had 
never  guessed  how  wonderfully  wonderful  it  was. 
It  came  to  me.  I  shuddered  and  wavered  like  a 
fountain  in  the  wind.  I  was  more  helpless  and 
flew  lightlier  than  a  shred  of  thistledown  among 


6o  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

the  stars.  All  night  long,  I  could  not  sleep  for 
hn  c  of  you;  nor  had  I  any  desire  of  sleep,  save 
that  it  might  take  me  to  you  in  a  dream.  I 
remember  nothing  that  happened  to  me  this  morn- 
ing before  I  found  myself  at  your  door." 

"Why  did  you  ring  the  bell?  Why  didn't  you 
walk  away?" 

"Why?  I  had  come  to  see  you,  to  be  near 
you,  to  be  'nith  you." 

"To  force  yourself  on  me." 

"Yes." 

"You  know  the  meaning  of  the  term  'effective 
occupation'?  Having  marched  in,  how  could  you 
have  held  your  position,  unless" — 

"Oh,  a  man  doesn't  necessarily  drive  a  woman 
away  because  he  isn't  in  love  with  her." 

"Yet  that  was  what  you  thought  I  had  done  to 
you  last  night." 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  suppose  you  would  take  the 
trouble  to  do  it  again.  And  if  you  had,  I  should 
have  only  loved  you  the  more.  I  thought  you 
would  most  likely  be  rather  amused,  rather 
touched,  by  my  importunity.  I  thought  you 
would  take  a  listless  advantage,  make  a  plaything 
of  me — the  diversion  of  a  few  idle  hours  in  sum- 
mer, and  then,  when  you  had  tired  of  me,  would 
cast  me  aside,  forget  me,  break  my  heart.  I  de- 
sired nothing  better  than  that.  That  is  what  I 
must  have  been  vaguely  hoping  for.  But  I  had  no 
definite  scheme.     I  wanted  to  be  with  you,  and  I 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  6i 

came  to  you.  It  seems  years  ago,  now!  How  my 
heart  beat  as  I  waited  on  the  doorstep!  'Is  his 
Grace  at  home?'  'I  don't  know.  I'll  inquire. 
What  name  shall  I  say?'  I  saw  in  the  girl's  eyes 
that  she,  too,  loved  you.     Have  yoii  seen  that?" 

*'I  have  never  looked  at  her,"  said  the  Duke. 

"No  wonder,  then,  that  she  loves  you,"  sighed 
Zuleika.  "She  read  my  secret  at  a  glance. 
Women  who  love  the  same  man  have  a  kind  of 
bitter  freemasonry.  We  resented  each  other.  She 
envied  me  my  beauty,  my  dress.  I  envied  the 
little  fool  her  privilege  of  being  always  near  to 
you.  Loving  you,  I  could  conceive  no  life  sweeter 
than  hers — to  be  always  near  you;  to  black  your 
boots,  carry  up  your  coals,  scrub  your  doorstep; 
always  to  be  working  for  you,  hard  and  humbly 
and  without  thanks.  If  you  had  refused  to  see 
me,  I  would  have  bribed  that  girl  with  all  my 
jewels  to  cede  me  her  position." 

The  Duke  made  a  step  towards  her.  "You 
would  do  it  still,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Zuleika  raised  her  eyebrows.  "I  would  not 
offer  her  one  garnet,"  she  said,  "now." 

"You  shall  love  me  again,"  he  cried.  "I  will 
force  you  to.  You  said  just  now  that  you  had 
ceased  to  love  me  because  I  was  just  like  other 
men.  I  am  not.  My  heart  is  no  tablet  of  mere 
wax,  from  which  an  instant's  heat  can  dissolve 
whatever  impress  it  may  bear,  leaving  it  blank 
and  soft  for  another  impress,  and  another,  and 


62  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

another.  My  licart  is  a  bright  hard  gem,  proof 
against  any  die.  Came  Cupid,  with  one  of  his 
arrow-points  for  graver,  and  what  he  cut  on  the 
gem's  surface  never  can  be  effaced.  There,  deeply 
and  forever,  your  image  is  intagliated.  No  years, 
nor  fires,  nor  cataclysm  of  total  Nature,  can 
efface  from  that  great  gem  your  image." 

"My  dear  Duke,"  said  Zuleika,  "don't  be  so 
silly.  Look  at  the  matter  sensibly.  I  know  that 
lovers  don't  try  to  regulate  their  emotions  accord- 
ing to  logic;  but  they  do,  nevertheless,  uncon- 
sciously conform  with  some  sort  of  logical  system. 
I  left  oft  loving  you  when  I  found  that  you  loved 
me.  There  is  the  premiss.  Very  well!  Is  it  likely 
that  I  shall  begin  to  love  you  again  because  you 
can't  leave  off  loving  me?" 

The  Duke  groaned.  There  w^as  a  clatter  of 
plates  outside,  and  she  whom  Zuleika  had  envied 
came  to  lay  the  table  for  luncheon. 

A  smile  flickered  across  Zuleika's  lips;  and 
"Not  one  garnet!"  she  murmured. 


V 


Luncheon  passed  In  almost  unbroken  silence. 
Both  Zuleika  and  the  Duke  were  ravenously 
hungry,  as  people  always  are  after  the  stress  of 
any  great  emotional  crisis.  Between  them,  they 
made  very  short  work  of  a  cold  chicken,  a  salad, 
a  gooseberry-tart  and  a  Camembert.  The  Duke 
filled  his  glass  again  and  again.  The  cold  classic- 
ism of  his  face  had  been  routed  by  the  new  ro- 
mantic movement  which  had  swept  over  his  soul. 
He  looked  two  or  three  months  older  than  when 
first  I  showed  him  to  my  reader. 

He  drank  his  coffee  at  one  draught,  pushed 
back  his  chair,  threw  away  the  cigarette  he  had 
just  lit.     "Listen!"  he  said. 

Zuleika  folded  her  hands  on  her  lap. 

"You  do  not  love  me.  I  accept  as  final  your 
hint  that  you  never  will  love  me.  I  need  not  say 
— could  not,  indeed,  ever  say — how  deeply, 
deeply  you  have  pained  me.  As  lover,  I  am  re- 
jected. But  that  rejection,"  he  continued,  striking 
the  table,  "is  no  stopper  to  my  suit.  It  does  but 
drive  me  to  the  use  of  arguments.  My  pride 
shrinks  from  them.  Love,  however,  is  greater 
than  pride;  and  I,  John,  Albert,  Edward,  Claude, 

63 


64  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

Orde,  Angus,  Tankerton,*  Tanville-Tankerton,t 
fourteenth  Duke  of  Dorset,  Marquis  of  Dorset, 
Earl  of  Grove,  Karl  of  Chasterniaine,  Viscount 
Brewsby,  Baron  Grove,  Baron  Petstrap,  and 
Baron  Wolock,  in  the  Peerage  of  England,  offer 
you  my  hand.  Do  not  interrupt  me.  Do  not  toss 
your  head.  Consider  well  what  I  am  saying. 
Weigh  the  advantages  you  would  gain  by  accept- 
ance of  my  hand.  Indeed,  they  are  manifold  and 
tremendous.  They  are  also  obvious:  do  not  shut 
your  eyes  to  them.  You,  Miss  Dobson,  what  are 
you?  A  conjurer,  and  a  vagrant;  without  means, 
save  such  as  you  can  earn  by  the  sleight  of  your 
hand;  without  position;  without  a  home;  all  un- 
guarded but  by  your  own  self-respect.  That  you 
follow  an  honourable  calling,  I  do  not  for  one 
moment  deny.  I  do,  however,  ask  you  to  con- 
sider how  great  are  its  perils  and  hardships,  its 
fatigues  and  inconveniences.  From  all  these  evils 
I  offer  you  instant  refuge.  I  offer  you.  Miss  Dob- 
son,  a  refuge  more  glorious  and  more  augustly 
gilded  than  you,  in  your  airiest  flights  of  fancy, 
can  ever  have  hoped  for  or  imagined.  I  own 
about  340,000  acres.  My  town-residence  is  in 
St.  James's  Square.  Tankerton,  of  which  you 
may  have  seen  photographs,  is  the  chief  of  my 
country-seats.  It  is  a  Tudor  house,  set  on  the 
ridge  of  a  valley.  The  valley,  its  park,  is  halved 
by  a  stream  so  narrow  that  the  deer  leap  across. 

^Pronounced  as  Tacton.    f  Pronounced  as  Tavvle-Tacton. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  65 

The  gardens  are  estraded  upon  the  slope.  Round 
the  house  runs  a  wide  paven  terrace.  There  are 
always  two  or  three  peacocks  trailing  their 
sheathed  feathers  along  the  balustrade,  and  step- 
ping how  stiffly!  as  though  they  had  just  been 
unharnessed  from  Juno's  chariot.  Two  flights  of 
shallow  steps  lead  down  to  the  flowers  and  foun- 
tains. Oh,  the  gardens  are  wonderful.  There 
is  a  Jacobean  garden  of  white  roses.  Between 
the  ends  of  two  pleached  alleys,  under  a  dome 
of  branches,  is  a  little  lake,  with  a  Triton  of 
black  marble,  and  with  water-lilies.  Hither  and 
thither  under  the  archipelago  of  water-lilies,  dart 
gold-fish — tongues  of  flame  in  the  dark  water. 
There  is  also  a  long  strait  alley  of  clipped  yew.  It 
ends  in  an  alcove  for  a  pagoda  of  painted  porce- 
lain which  the  Prince  Regent — peace  be  to  his 
ashes!  —  presented  to  my  great-grandfather. 
There  are  many  twisting  paths,  and  sudden  as- 
pects, and  devious,  fantastic  arbours.  Are  you 
fond  of  horses?  In  my  stables  of  pine-wood  and 
plated-silver  seventy  are  installed.  Not  all  of 
them  together  could  vie  in  power  with  one  of  the 
meanest  of  my  motor-cars." 

"Oh,  I  never  go  in  motors,"  said  Zuleika. 
"They  make  one  look  like  nothing  on  earth,  and 
like  everybody  else." 

"I  myself,"  said  the  Duke,  "use  them  little  for 
that  very  reason.  Are  you  interested  in  farm- 
ing?   At  Tankerton  there  is  a  model  farm  which 


(>^  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

would  at  any  rate  amuse  you,  with  Its  heifers  and 
hens  and  pigs  that  are  like  so  many  big  new  toys. 
There  is  a  tiny  dairy,  which  Is  called  'Her 
Grace's.'  You  could  make,  therein,  real  butter 
with  your  own  hands,  and  round  it  into  little  pats, 
and  press  every  pat  with  a  different  device.  The 
boudoir  that  would  be  yours  Is  a  blue  room.  Four 
Watteaus  hang  in  It.  In  the  dlnlng-hall  hang  por- 
traits of  my  forefathers — /";/  petto,  your  fore- 
fathers-in-law — by  many  masters.  Are  you  fond 
of  peasants?  My  tenantry  are  delightful  creat- 
ures, and  there  Is  not  one  of  them  who  remem- 
bers the  bringing  of  the  news  of  the  Battle  of 
Waterloo.  When  a  new  Duchess  is  brought  to 
Tankerton,  the  oldest  elm  In  the  park  must  be 
felled.  That  Is  one  of  many  strange  old  customs. 
As  she  is  driven  through  the  village,  the  children 
of  the  tenantry  must  strew  the  road  with  daisies. 
The  bridal  chamber  must  be  lighted  with  as  many 
candles  as  years  have  elapsed  since  the  creation  of 
the  Dukedom.  If  you  came  Into  It,  there  would 
be" — and  the  youth,  closing  his  eyes,  made  a 
rapid  calculation — "exactly  three  hundred  and 
eighty-eight  candles.  On  the  eve  of  the  death  of 
a  Duke  of  Dorset,  two  black  owls  come  and 
perch  on  the  battlements.  They  remain  there 
through  the  night,  hooting.  At  dawn  they  fly 
away,  none  knows  whither.  On  the  eve  of  the 
death  of  any  other  Tanvllle-Tankerton,  comes 
(no  matter  what  be  the  time  of  year)   a  cuckoo. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  67 

It  stays  for  an  hour,  cooing,  then  flies  away,  none 
knows  whither.  Whenever  this  portent  occurs, 
my  steward  telegraphs  to  me,  that  I,  as  head  of 
the  family,  be  not  unsteeled  against  the  shock  of  a 
bereavement,  and  that  my  authority  be  sooner 
given  for  the  unsealing  and  garnishing  of  the 
family-vault.  Not  every  forefather  of  mine  rests 
quiet  beneath  his  escutcheoned  marble.  There 
are  they  who  revisit,  in  their  wrath  or  their  re- 
morse, the  places  wherein  erst  they  suffered  or 
wrought  evil.  There  is  one  who,  every  Hallow- 
een, flits  into  the  dining-hall,  and  hovers  before 
the  portrait  which  Hans  Holbein  made  of  him, 
and  flings  his  diaphanous  grey  form  against  the 
canvas,  hoping,  maybe,  to  catch  from  it  the  fiery 
flesh-tints  and  the  solid  limbs  that  were  his,  and 
so  to  be  re-incarnate.  He  flies  against  the  paint- 
ing, only  to  find  himself  t'other  side  of  the  wall 
it  hangs  on.  There  are  five  ghosts  permanently 
residing  in  the  right  wing  of  the  house,  two  in  the 
left,  and  eleven  in  the  park.  But  all  are  quite 
noiseless  and  quite  harmless.  My  servants,  when 
they  meet  them  in  the  corridors  or  on  the  stairs, 
stand  aside  to  let  them  pass,  thus  paying  them 
the  respect  due  to  guests  of  mine;  but  not  even  the 
rawest  housemaid  ever  screams  or  flees  at  sight 
of  them.  I,  their  host,  often  waylay  them  and  try 
to  commune  with  them ;  but  always  they  glide 
past  me.  And  how  gracefully  they  glide,  these 
ghosts!     It  is  a  pleasure  to  watch  them.     It  is  a 


68  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

lesson  in  'deportment.  May  they  never  be  laid! 
Of  all  my  household-pets,  they  are  the  dearest  to 
me.  I  am  Duke  of  Strathsporran  and  Cairngorm, 
Marquis  of  Sorby,  and  Earl  Cairngorm,  in  the 
Peerage  of  Scotland.  In  the  glens  of  the  hills 
about  Strathsporran  are  many  noble  and  nimble 
stags.  But  I  have  never  set  foot  in  my  house 
there,  for  it  is  carpeted  throughout  with  the  tar- 
tan of  my  clan.  You  seem  to  like  tartan.  What 
tartan  is  it  you  are  wearing?" 

Zuleika  looked  down  at  her  skirt.  "I  don't 
know,"  she  said.     "I  got  it  in  Paris." 

"Well,"  said  the  Duke,  "it  is  very  ugly.  The 
Dalbraith  tartan  is  harmonious  in  comparison, 
and  has,  at  least,  the  excuse  of  history.  If  you 
married  me,  you  would  have  the  right  to  wear  it. 
You  would  have  many  strange  and  fascinating 
rights.  You  would  go  to  Court.  I  admit  that  the 
Hanoverian  Court  is  not  much.  Still,  it  is  better 
than  nothing.  At  your  presentation,  moreover, 
you  would  be  given  the  entree.  Is  that  nothing  to 
you?  You  would  be  driven  to  Court  in  my  state- 
coach.  It  is  swung  so  high  that  the  streetsters 
can  hardly  see  its  occupant.  It  is  lined  with  rose- 
silk;  and  on  its  panels,  and  on  its  hammer-cloth, 
my  arms  are  emblazoned — no  one  has  ever  been 
able  to  count  the  quarterings.  You  would  be 
wearing  the  family-jewels,  reluctantly  surrendered 
to  you  by  my  aunt.  They  are  many  and  mar- 
vellous, in  their  antique  settings.     I  don't  want 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  69 

to  brag.  It  humiliates  me  to  speak  to  you  as  I 
am  speaking.  But  I  am  heart-set  on  you,  and 
to  win  you  there  is  not  a  precious  stone  I  would 
leave  unturned.  Conceive  a  parurc  all  of  white 
stones — diamonds,  white  sapphires,  white  to- 
pazes, tourmalines.  Another,  of  rubies  and  ame- 
thysts, set  in  gold  filigree.  Rings  that  once  were 
poison-combs  on  Florentine  fingers.  Red  roses 
for  your  hair — every  petal  a  hollowed  ruby. 
Amulets  and  ape-buckles,  zones  and  fillets.  Aye ! 
know  that  you  would  be  weeping  for  wonder 
before  you  had  seen  a  tithe  of  these  gauds.  Know, 
too,  Miss  Dobson,  that  in  the  Peerage  of  France 
I  am  Due  d'Etretat  et  de  la  Roche  Guillaume. 
Louis  Napoleon  gave  the  title  to  my  father  for 
not  cutting  him  in  the  Bois.  I  have  a  house  in 
the  Champs  Elysees.  There  is  a  Swiss  in  its 
courtyard.  He  stands  six-foot-seven  in  his  stock- 
ings, and  the  chasseurs  are  hardly  less  tall  than 
he.  Wherever  I  go,  there  are  two  chefs  in  my 
retinue.  Both  are  masters  in  their  art,  and  furi- 
ously jealous  of  each  other.  When  I  compliment 
either  of  them  on  some  dish,  the  other  challenges 
him.  They  fight  with  rapiers,  next  morning,  in 
the  garden  of  whatever  house  I  am  occupying.  I 
do  not  know  whether  you  are  greedy?  If  so,  it 
may  interest  you  to  learn  that  I  have  a  third  chef, 
who  makes  only  souffles,  and  an  Italian  pastry- 
cook; to  say  nothing  of  a  Spaniard  for  salads,  an 
Englishwoman  for  roasts,  and  an  Abyssinian  for 


70  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

cofTcc.  You  found  no  trace  of  their  liandiwork 
ill  tlie  meal  you  have  just  had  with  me?  No;  for 
in  Oxford  it  is  a  whim  of  mine — I  may  say  a 
point  of  honour — to  lead  the  ordinary  life  of  an 
undergraduate.  What  I  eat  in  this  room  is 
cooked  by  the  heavy  and  unaided  hand  of  Mrs. 
liatch,  my  landlady.  It  is  set  before  me  by  the 
unaided  and — or  are  you  in  error? — loving  hand 
of  her  daughter.  Other  ministers  have  I  none 
here,  I  dispense  with  my  private  secretaries.  I 
am  unattended  by  a  single  valet.  So  simple  a 
way  of  life  repels  you?  You  would  never  be 
called  upon  to  share  it.  If  you  married  me,  I' 
should  take  my  name  off  the  books  of  my  College. 
I  propose  that  we  should  spend  our  honeymoon 
at  Baiae.  I  have  a  villa  at  Baiae.  It  is  there  that 
I  keep  my  grandfather's  collection  of  majolica. 
The  sun  shines  there  always.  A  long  olive-grove 
secretes  the  garden  from  the  sea.  When  you  walk 
in  the  garden,  you  know  the  sea  only  in  blue 
glimpses  through  the  vacillating  leaves.  White- 
gleaming  from  the  bosky  shade  of  this  grove  are 
several  goddesses.  Do  you  care  for  Canova?  I 
don't  myself.  If  you  do,  these  figures  will  appeal 
to  you  :  they  are  in  his  best  manner.  Do  you  love 
the  sea?  This  is  not  the  only  house  of  mine  that 
looks  out  on  it.  On  the  coast  of  County  Clare — 
am  I  not  Earl  of  Enniskerry  and  Baron  Shandrin 
in  the  Peerage  of  Ireland? — I  have  an  ancient 
castle.     Sheer  from  a  rock  stands  it,  and  the  sea 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  71 

has  always  raged  up  against  Its  walls.  Many  ships 
lie  wrecked  under  that  loud  Implacable  sea.  But 
mine  Is  a  brave  strong  castle.  No  storm  affrights 
It;  and  not  the  centuries,  clustering  hourls,  with 
their  caresses  can  seduce  It  from  Its  hard  aus- 
terity. I  have  several  titles  which  for  the  moment 
escape  me.  Baron  Llffthwchl  am  I,  and...  and 
.  .  .but  you  can  find  them  for  yourself  In  Debrett. 
In  me  you  behold  a  Prince  of  the  Holy  Roman 
Empire,  and  a  Knight  of  the  Most  Noble  Order 
of  the  Garter.  Look  well  at  me !  I  am  Heredi- 
tary Comber  of  the  Queen's  Lap-Dogs.  I  am 
young.  I  am  handsome.  My  temper  Is  sweet, 
and  my  character  without  blemish.  In  fine,  Miss 
Dobson,  I  am  a  most  desirable  parti." 

"But,"  said  Zulelka,  "I  don't  love  you." 

The  Duke  stamped  his  foot.  "I  beg  your  par- 
don," he  said  hastily.  "I  ought  not  to  have  done 
that.  But — you  seem  to  have  entirely  missed  the 
point  of  what  I  was  saying." 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  Zulelka. 

"Then  what,"  cried  the  Duke,  standing  over 
her,  "what  Is  your  reply?" 

Said  Zulelka,  looking  up  at  him,  "My  reply  Is 
that  I  think  you  are  an  awful  snob." 

The  Duke  turned  on  his  heel,  and  strode  to 
the  other  end  of  the  room.  There  he  stood  for 
some  moments,  his  back  to  Zulelka. 

"I  think,"  she  resumed  In  a  slow,  meditative 
voice,  "that  you  are,  with  the  possible  exception 


72  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

of  a  Mr.  Edelweiss,  llw  most  awful  snob  I  have 
ever  met." 

The  Duke  looked  back  over  his  shoulder.  He 
gave  Zuleika  the  stinging  reprimand  of  silence. 
She  was  sorry,  and  showed  It  in  her  eyes.  She 
felt  she  had  gone  too  far.  True,  he  was  nothing 
to  her  now.  But  she  had  loved  him  once.  She 
could  not  forget  that. 

"Come!"  she  said.  "Let  us  be  good  friends. 
Give  me  your  hand!"  He  came  to  her,  slowly. 
"There!" 

The  Duke  withdrew  his  fingers  before  she  un- 
clasped them.  That  twice-flung  taunt  rankled 
still.  It  was  monstrous  to  have  been  called  a 
snob.  A  snob! — he,  whose  readiness  to  form 
what  would  certainly  be  regarded  as  a  shocking 
misalliance  ought  to  have  stifled  the  charge,  not 
merely  vindicated  him  from  it!  He  had  forgot- 
ten, in  the  blindness  of  his  love,  how  shocking  the 
misalliance  would  be.  Perhaps  she,  unloving,  had 
not  been  so  forgetful?  Perhaps  her  refusal  had 
been  made,  generously,  for  his  own  sake.  Nay, 
rather  for  her  own.  Evidently,  she  had  felt  that 
the  high  sphere  from  which  he  beckoned  was  no 
place  for  the  likes  of  her.  Evidently,  she  feared 
she  would  pine  away  among  those  strange  splen- 
dours, never  be  acclimatised,  always  be  unworthy. 
He  had  thought  to  overwhelm  her,  and  he  had 
done  his  work  too  thoroughly.  Now  he  must  try 
to  lighten  the  load  he  had  imposed. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  73 

Seating  himself  opposite  to  her,  "You  remem- 
ber," he  said,  "that  there  Is  a  dairy  at 
Tankerton?" 

"A  dairy?     Oh  yes." 

"Do  you  remember  what  It  is  called?" 

Zuleika  knit  her  brows. 

He  helped  her  out.  "It  Is  called  'Her 
Grace's'." 

"Oh,  of  course!"  said  Zuleika. 

"Do  you  know  why  it  Is  called  so?" 

"Well,  let's  see.  .  .1  know  you  told  me." 

"Did  I?  I  think  not.  I  will  tell  you  now.  .  . 
That  cool  out-house  dates  from  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  My  great-great-grandfather, 
when  he  was  a  very  old  man,  married  en  tro'isiemes 
noces  a  dairy-maid  on  the  Tankerton  estate.  Meg 
Speedwell  was  her  name.  He  had  seen  her  walk- 
ing across  a  field,  not  many  months  after  the  inter- 
ment of  his  second  Duchess,  Maria,  that  great 
and  gifted  lady.  I  know  not  whether  it  was  that 
her  bonny  mien  fanned  In  him  some  embers  of  his 
youth,  or  that  he  was  loth  to  be  outdone  In  gra- 
cious eccentricity  by  his  crony  the  Duke  of  Dew- 
lap, who  himself  had  just  taken  a  bride  from  a 
dairy.  (You  have  read  Meredith's  account  of 
that  affair?  No?  You  should.)  Whether  it 
was  veritable  love  or  mere  modishness  that 
formed  my  ancestor's  resolve,  presently  the  bells 
were  ringing  out,  and  the  oldest  elm  in  the  park 
was  being  felled,  in  Meg  Speedwell's  honour,  and 


74  Zll,F,IKA    DOBSON 

the  children  were  strewing  daisies  on  wliich  Meg 
Speedwell  trod,  a  proud  young  hoyden  of  a  bride, 
with  her  head  in  the  air  and  her  heart  in  the  sev- 
enth heaven.  The  Duke  had  given  her  already 
a  horde  of  fine  gifts;  but  these,  he  had  said,  were 
nothing — trash  in  comparison  with  the  gift  that 
was  to  ensure  for  her  a  perdurable  felicity.  After 
the  wedding-breakfast,  when  all  the  squires  had 
ridden  away  on  their  cobs,  and  all  the  squires' 
ladies  in  their  coaches,  the  Duke  led  his  bride 
forth  from  the  hall,  leaning  on  her  arm,  till  they 
came  to  a  little  edifice  of  new  white  stone,  very 
spick  and  span,  with  two  lattice-windows  and  a 
bright  green  door  between.  This  he  bade  her 
enter.  A-flutter  with  excitement,  she  turned  the 
handle.  In  a  moment  she  flounced  back,  red  with 
shame  and  anger — flounced  forth  from  the  fair- 
est, whitest,  dapperest  dairy,  wherein  was  all  of 
the  best  that  the  keenest  dairy-maid  might  need. 
The  Duke  bade  her  dry  her  eyes,  for  that  it  111 
befitted  a  great  lady  to  be  weeping  on  her  wed- 
ding-day. 'As  for  gratitude,'  he  chuckled, 
'zounds!  that  is  a  wine  all  the  better  for  the  keep- 
ing.' Duchess  Meg  soon  forgot  this  unworthy 
wedding-gift,  such  was  her  rapture  in  the  other, 
the  so  august,  appurtenances  of  her  new  life. 
What  with  her  fine  silk  gowns  and  farthingales, 
and  her  powder-closet,  and  the  canopied  bed  she 
slept  in — a  bed  bigger  far  than  the  room  she  had 
slept  in  with  her  sisters,  and  standing  in  a  room 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  75 

far  bigger  than  her  father's  cottage;  and  what 
with  Betty,  her  maid,  who  had  pinched  and  teased 
her  at  the  village-school,  but  now  waited  on  her 
so  meekly  and  trembled  so  fearfully  at  a  scolding; 
and  what  with  the  fine  hot  dishes  that  were  set 
before  her  every  day,  and  the  gallant  speeches 
and  glances  of  the  fine  young  gentlemen  whom 
the  Duke  invited  from  London,  Duchess  Meg 
was  quite  the  happiest  Duchess  in  all  England. 
For  a  while,  she  was  like  a  child  In  a  hay-rick. 
But  anon,  as  the  sheer  delight  of  novelty  wore 
away,  she  began  to  take  a  more  serious  view  of 
her  position.  She  began  to  realise  her  responsi- 
bilities. She  was  determined  to  do  all  that  a  great 
lady  ought  to  do.  Twice  every  day  she  assumed 
the  vapours.  She  schooled  herself  In  the  mys- 
teries of  Ombre,  of  Macao.  She  spent  hours  over 
the  tambour-frame.  She  rode  out  on  horse-back, 
with  a  riding-master.  She  had  a  music-master  to 
teach  her  the  spinet;  a  dancing-master,  too,  to 
teach  her  the  Minuet  and  the  Triumph  and  the 
Gaudy.  All  these  accomplishments  she  found 
mighty  hard.  She  was  afraid  of  her  horse.  All 
the  morning,  she  dreaded  the  hour  when  It  would 
be  brought  round  from  the  stables.  She  dreaded 
her  dancing-lesson.  Try  as  she  would,  she  could 
but  stamp  her  feet  flat  on  the  parquet,  as  though 
it  had  been  the  village-green.  She  dreaded  her 
music-lesson.  Her  fingers,  disobedient  to  her  am- 
bition, clumsily  thumped  the  keys  of  the  spinet, 


76  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

and  by  the  notes  of  the  score  propped  up  before 
her  she  was  as  cruelly  perplexed  as  by  the  black 
and  red  pips  of  the  cards  she  conned  at  the  gam- 
ing-table, or  by  the  red  and  gold  threads  that 
were  always  straying  and  snapping  on  her  tam- 
bour-framc.  Still  she  persevered.  Day  in,  day 
out,  sullenly,  she  worked  hard  to  be  a  great  lady. 
But  skill  came  not  to  her,  and  hope  dwindled; 
only  the  dull  effort  remained.  One  accomplish- 
ment she  did  master — to  wit,  the  vapours:  they 
became  for  her  a  dreadful  reality.  She  lost  her 
appetite  for  the  fine  hot  dishes.  All  night  long, 
she  lay  awake,  restless,  tearful,  under  the  fine  silk 
canopy,  till  dawn  stared  her  into  slumber.  She 
seldom  scolded  Betty.  She  who  had  been  so  lusty 
and  so  blooming  saw  in  her  mirror  that  she  was 
pale  and  thin  now;  and  the  fine  young  gentlemen, 
seeing  it  too,  paid  more  heed  now  to  their  wine 
and  their  dice  than  to  her.  And  always,  when 
she  met  him,  the  Duke  smiled  the  same  mocking 
smile.  Duchess  Meg  was  pining  slowly  and  surely 
away... One  morning,  in  Spring-time,  she  alto- 
gether vanished.  Betty,  bringing  the  cup  of  choco- 
late to  the  bedside,  found  the  bed  empty.  She 
raised  the  alarm  among  her  fellows.  They 
searched  high  and  low.  Nowhere  was  their  mis- 
tress. The  news  was  broken  to  their  master, 
who,  without  comment,  rose,  bade  his  man  dress 
him,  and  presently  walked  out  to  the  place  where 
he  knew  he  would  find  her.     And  there,  to  be 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  77 

sure,  she  was,  churning,  churning  for  dear  life. 
Her  sleeves  were  rolled  above  her  elbows,  and 
her  skirt  was  kilted  high;  and,  as  she  looked  back 
over  her  shoulder  and  saw  the  Duke,  there  was 
the  flush  of  roses  In  her  cheeks,  and  the  light  of 
a  thousand  thanks  In  her  eyes.  'Oh,'  she  cried, 
'what  a  curtsey  I  would  drop  you,  but  that  to 
let  go  the  handle  were  to  spoil  all!'  And  every 
morning,  ever  after,  she  woke  when  the  birds 
woke,  rose  when  they  rose,  and  went  singing 
through  the  dawn  to  the  dairy,  there  to  practise 
for  her  pleasure  that  sweet  and  lowly  handicraft 
which  she  had  once  practised  for  her  need.  And 
every  evening,  with  her  milking-stool  under  her 
arm,  and  her  milk-pail  in  her  hand,  she  went  into 
the  field  and  called  the  cows  to  her,  as  she  had 
been  wont  to  do.  To  those  other,  those  so  august, 
accomplishments  she  no  more  pretended.  She 
gave  them  the  go-by.  And  all  the  old  zest  and 
joyousness  of  her  life  came  back  to  her.  Sound- 
lier  than  ever  slept  she,  and  sweetlier  dreamed, 
under  the  fine  silk  canopy,  till  the  birds  called  her 
to  her  work.  Greater  than  ever  was  her  love  of 
the  fine  furbelows  that  were  hers  to  flaunt  In,  and 
sharper  her  appetite  for  the  fine  hot  dishes,  and 
more  tempestuous  her  scolding  of  Betty,  poor 
maid.  She  was  more  than  ever  now  the  cynosure, 
the  adored,  of  the  fine  young  gentlemen.  And  as 
for  her  husband,  she  looked  up  to  him  as  the 
wisest,  kindest  man  In  all  the  world." 


78  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

"And  the  fine  young  gentlemen,"  said  Zuleika, 
"did  she  fall  in  love  with  any  of  them?" 

"You  forget,"  said  the  Duke  coldly,  "she  was 
married  to  a  member  of  my  family." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  tell  me  :  did  they 
all  adore  her?" 

"Yes.     Every  one  of  them,  wildly,  madly." 

"Ah,"  murmured  Zuleika,  with  a  smile  of  un- 
derstanding. A  shadow  crossed  her  face,  "Even 
so,"  she  said,  with  some  pique,  "I  don't  suppose 
she  had  so  very  many  adorers.  She  never  went 
out  into  the  world." 

"Tankerton,"  said  the  Duke  drily,  "is  a  large 
house,  and  my  great-great-grandfather  was  the 
most  hospitable  of  men.  However,"  he  added, 
marvelling  that  she  had  again  missed  the  point  so 
utterly,  "my  purpose  was  not  to  confront  you 
with  a  past  rival  In  conquest,  but  to  set  at  rest  a 
fear  which  I  had,  I  think,  roused  in  you  by  my 
somewhat  full  description  of  the  high  majestic  life 
to  which  you,  as  my  bride,  would  be  translated." 

"A  fear?    What  sort  of  a  fear?" 

"That  you  would  not  breathe  freely — that  you 
would  starve  (if  I  may  use  a  somewhat  fantastic 
figure)  among  those  strawberry-leaves.  And  so  I 
told  you  the  story  of  Meg  Speedwell,  and  how 
she  lived  happily  ever  after.  Nay,  hear  me  out! 
The  blood  of  Meg  Speedwell's  lord  flows  In  my 
veins.     I  think  I  may  boast  that  I  have  inherited 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  79 

something  of  his  sagacity.  In  any  case,  I  can 
profit  by  his  example.  Do  not  fear  that  I,  if  you 
were  to  wed  me,  should  demand  a  metamorphosis 
of  your  present  self.  I  should  take  you  as  you 
are,  gladly.  I  should  encourage  you  to  be  always 
exactly  as  you  are — a  radiant,  irresistible  member 
of  the  upper  middle-class,  with  a  certain  freedom 
of  manner  acquired  through  a  life  of  peculiar 
liberty.  Can  you  guess  what  would  be  my  princi- 
pal wedding-gift  to  you?  Meg  Speedwell  had 
her  dairy.  For  you,  would  be  built  another  out- 
house— a  neat  hall  wherein  you  would  perform 
your  conjuring-trlcks,  every  evening  except  Sun- 
day, before  me  and  my  tenants  and  my  servants, 
and  before  such  of  my  neighbours  as  might  care  to 
come.  None  would  respect  you  the  less,  seeing 
that  I  approved.  Thus  in  you  would  the  pleasant 
history  of  Meg  Speedwell  repeat  itself.  You, 
practising  for  your  pleasure — nay,  hear  me  out ! 

— that  sweet  and  lowly  handicraft  which " 

"I  won't  listen  to  another  word !"  cried  Zulelka. 
"You  are  the  most  insolent  person  I  have  ever 
met.  I  happen  to  come  of  a  particularly  good 
family.  I  move  in  the  best  society.  My  man- 
ners are  absolutely  perfect.  If  I  found  myself 
In  the  shoes  of  twenty  Duchesses  simultaneously, 
I  should  know  quite  well  how  to  behave.  As  for 
the  one  pair  you  can  offer  me,  I  kick  them  away — 
so.     I  kick  them  back  at  you.     I  tell  you " 


8o  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

"Hush,"  said  the  Duke,  "hush  1  You  are  over- 
excited. There  will  be  a  crowd  under  my  window. 
There,  there!     I  am  sorry.     I  thought " 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  thought,"  said  Zuleika, 
in  a  quieter  tone.  "I  am  sure  you  meant  well. 
I  am  sorry  I  lost  my  temper.  Only,  you  might 
have  given  me  credit  for  meaning  what  I  said: 
that  I  would  not  marry  you,  because  I  did  not 
love  you.  I  daresay  there  would  be  great  advan- 
tages in  being  your  Duchess.  But  the  fact  is,  I 
have  no  worldly  wisdom.  To  me,  marriage  is  a 
sacrament.  I  could  no  more  marry  a  man  about 
whom  I  could  not  make  a  fool  of  myself  than  I 
could  marry  one  who  made  a  fool  of  himself 
about  me.  Else  had  I  long  ceased  to  be  a  spin- 
ster. Oh  my  friend,  do  not  imagine  that  I  have 
not  rejected,  in  my  day,  a  score  of  suitors  quite  as 
eligible  as  you." 

"As  eligible?  Who  were  they?"  frowned  the 
Duke. 

"Oh,  Archduke  this,  and  Grand  Duke  that,  and 
His  Serene  Highness  the  other.  I  have  a  wretched 
memory  for  names." 

"And  my  name,  too,  will  soon  escape  you, 
perhaps?" 

"No.  Oh,  no.  I  shall  always  remember  yours. 
You  see,  I  was  in  love  with  you.  You  deceived 
me  into  loving  you.  .  ."  She  sighed.  "Oh,  had 
you  but  been  as  strong  as  I  thought  you.  .  .  Still, 
a   swain  the   more.     That   is   something."      She 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  8i 

leaned  forward,  smiling  archly,  "Those  studs — 
show  me  them  again." 

The  Duke  displayed  them  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand.  She  touched  them  lightly,  reverently,  as  a 
tourist  touches  a  sacred  relic  in  a  church. 

At  length,  "Do  give  me  them,"  she  said.  "I 
will  keep  them  in  a  little  secret  partition  of  my 
jewel-case."  The  Duke  had  closed  his  fist.  "Do  !" 
she  pleaded.  "My  other  jewels — they  have  no 
separate  meanings  for  me.  I  never  remember 
who  gave  me  this  one  or  that.  These  would  be 
quite  different.  I  should  always  remember  their 
history...    Do!" 

"Ask  me  for  anything  else,"  said  the  Duke. 
"These  are  the  one  thing  I  could  not  part  with — 
even  to  you,  for  whose  sake  they  are  hallowed." 

Zuleika  pouted.  On  the  verge  of  persisting, 
she  changed  her  mind,  and  was  silent. 

"Well!"  she  said  abruptly,  "how  about  these 
races?     Are  you  going  to  take  me  to  see  them?" 

"Races?  What  races?"  murmured  the  Duke. 
"Oh  yes.  I  had  forgotten.  Do  you  really  mean 
that  you  want  to  see  them?" 

"Why,  of  course!  They  are  great  fun,  aren't 
they?" 

"And  you  are  in  a  mood  for  great  fun?  Well, 
there  is  plenty  of  time.  The  Second  Division  is 
not  rowed  till  half-past  four." 

"The  Second  Division?  Why  not  take  me  to 
the  First?" 


82  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

"That  Is  not  rowed  till  six." 

"Isn't  this  rather  an  odd  arrangement?" 

"No  doubt.  But  Oxford  never  pretended  to 
be  strong  in  mathematics." 

"Why,  it's  not  yet  three!"  cried  Zuleika,  with 
a  woebegone  stare  at  the  clock.  "What  is  to  be 
done  in  the  meantime?" 

"Am  not  I  sufficiently  diverting?"  asked  the 
Duke  bitterly. 

"Quite  candidly,  no.  Have  you  any  friend 
lodging  with  you  here?" 

"One,  overhead.    A  man  named  Noaks." 

"A  small  man,  w^ith  spectacles?" 

"Very  small,  with  very  large  spectacles." 

"He  was  pointed  out  to  me  yesterday,  as  I  was 
driving  from  the  Station.  .  .  No,  I  don't  think 
I  want  to  meet  him.  What  can  you  have  in  com- 
mon with  him?" 

"One  frailty,  at  least:  he,  too.  Miss  Dobson, 
loves  you." 

"But  of  course  he  does.  He  saw  me  drive  past. 
Very  few  of  the  others,"  she  said,  rising  and 
shaking  herself,  "have  set  eyes  on  me.  Do  let 
us  go  out  and  look  at  the  Colleges.  I  do  need 
change  of  scene.  If  you  were  a  doctor,  you  would 
have  prescribed  that  long  ago.  It  is  very  bad  for 
me  to  be  here,  a  kind  of  Cinderella,  moping  over 
the  ashes  of  my  love  for  you.  Where  is  your 
hat?" 

Looking  round,  she  caught  sight  of  herself  in 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  83 

the  glass.  "Oh,"  she  cried,  "what  a  fright  I  do 
look!     I  must  never  be  seen  like  this!" 

"You  look  very  beautiful." 

"I  don't.  That  is  a  lover's  illusion.  You  your- 
self told  me  that  this  tartan  was  perfectly  hideous. 
There  was  no  need  to  tell  me  that.  I  came  thus 
because  I  was  coming  to  see  you.  I  chose  this 
frock  in  the  deliberate  fear  that  you,  if  I  made 
myself  presentable,  might  succumb  at  second  sight 
of  me.  I  would  have  sent  out  for  a  sack  and 
dressed  myself  in  that,  I  would  have  blacked  my 
face  all  over  with  burnt  cork,  only  I  was  afraid 
of  being  mobbed  on  the  way  to  you." 

"Even  so,  you  would  but  have  been  mobbed 
for  your  incorrigible  beauty." 

"My  beauty!  How  I  hate  it!"  sighed  Zuleika. 
*'Still,  here  it  is,  and  I  must  needs  make  the  best 
of  it.  Come !  Take  me  to  Judas.  I  will  change 
my  things.    Then  I  shall  be  fit  for  the  races." 

As  these  two  emerged,  side  by  side,  into  the 
street,  the  Emperors  exchanged  stony  sidelong 
glances.  For  they  saw  the  more  than  normal 
pallor  of  the  Duke's  face,  and  something  very 
like  desperation  in  his  eyes.  They  saw  the  tragedy 
progressing  to  its  foreseen  close.  Unable  to  stay 
its  course,  they  were  grimly  fascinated  now. 


yi 


*'The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them;  the  good 
is  oft  interred  with  their  bones."  At  any  rate, 
the  sinner  has  a  better  chance  than  the  saint  of 
being  hereafter  remembered.  We,  in  whom 
original  sin  preponderates,  find  him  easier  to 
understand.  He  is  near  to  us,  clear  to  us.  The 
saint  is  remote,  dim.  A  very  great  saint  may,  of 
course,  be  remembered  through  some  sheer  force 
of  originality  in  him;  and  then  the  very  mystery 
that  involves  him  for  us  makes  him  the  harder 
to  forget:  he  haunts  us  the  more  surely  because 
we  shall  never  understand  him.  But  the  ordinary 
saints  grow  faint  to  posterity;  whilst  quite  ordi- 
nary sinners  pass  vividly  down  the  ages. 

Of  the  disciples  of  Jesus,  which  is  he  that  is 
most  often  remembered  and  cited  by  us?  Not  the 
disciple  whom  Jesus  loved;  neither  of  the 
Boanerges,  nor  any  other  of  them  who  so  stead- 
fastly followed  Him  and  served  Him;  but  the 
disciple  who  betrayed  Him  for  thirty  pieces  of 
silver.  Judas  Iscariot  it  is  who  outstands,  over- 
shadowing those  other  fishermen.  And  perhaps  it 
was  by  reason  of  this  precedence  that  Christopher 
Whitrid,  Knight,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VI.,  gave 

84 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  85 

the  name  of  Judas  to  the  College  which  he  had 
founded.  Or  perhaps  it  was  because  he  felt  that 
in  a  Christian  community  not  even  the  meanest 
and  basest  of  men  should  be  accounted  beneath 
contempt,  beyond  redemption. 

At  any  rate,  thus  he  named  his  foundation. 
And,  though  for  Oxford  men  the  savour  of  the 
name  itself  has  long  evaporated  through  its  local 
connexion,  many  things  show  that  for  the  Founder 
himself  it  was  no  empty  vocable.  In  a  niche  above 
the  gate  stands  a  rudely  carved  statue  of  Judas, 
holding  a  money-bag  in  his  right  hand.  Among 
the  original  statutes  of  the  College  is  one  by 
which  the  Bursar  is  enjoined  to  distribute  in  Pas- 
sion Week  thirty  pieces  of  silver  among  the  need- 
ier scholars  "for  saike  of  atonynge."  The 
meadow  adjoining  the  back  of  the  College  has 
been  called  from  time  immemorial  "the  Potter's 
Field."  And  the  name  of  Salt  Cellar  is  not  less 
ancient  and  significant. 

Salt  Cellar,  that  grey  and  green  quadrangle 
visible  from  the  room  assigned  to  Zuleika,  is  very 
beautiful,  as  I  have  said.  So  tranquil  is  it  as  to 
seem  remote  not  merely  from  the  world,  but  even 
from  Oxford,  so  deeply  is  it  hidden  away  in  the 
core  of  Oxford's  heart.  So  tranquil  is  it,  one 
would  guess  that  nothing  had  ever  happened  in  it. 
For  five  centuries  these  walls  have  stood,  and  dur- 
ing that  time  have  beheld,  one  would  say,  no  sight 
less  seemly  than  the  good  work  of  weeding,  mow- 


86  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

ing,  rolling,  that  has  made,  at  length,  so  exem- 
plary the  lawn.  These  cloisters  that  grace  the 
south  and  east  sides — five  centuries  have  passed 
through  them,  leaving  in  them  no  echo,  leaving  on 
them  no  sign,  of  all  that  the  outer  world,  for  good 
or  evil,  has  been  doing  so  fiercely,  so  raucously. 

And  yet,  if  you  are  versed  in  the  antiquities  of 
Oxford,  you  know  that  this  small,  still  quadrangle 
has  played  its  part  in  the  rough-and-tumble  of 
history,  and  has  been  the  background  of  high 
passions  and  strange  fates.  The  sun-dial  in  its 
midst  has  told  the  hours  to  miore  than  one  bygone 
King.  Charles  I.  lay  for  twelve  nights  in  Judas; 
and  it  was  here,  in  this  very  quadrangle,  that  he 
heard  from  the  lips  of  a  breathless  and  blood- 
stained messenger  the  news  of  Chalgrove  Field. 
Sixty  years  later,  James,  his  son,  came  hither, 
black  with  threats,  and  from  one  of  the  hind- 
windows  of  the  Warden's  house — maybe,  from 
the  very  room  where  now  Zuleika  was  changing 
her  frock — addressed  the  Fellows,  and  presented 
to  them  the  Papist  by  him  chosen  to  be  their 
Warden,  instead  of  the  Protestant  whom  they 
had  elected.  They  were  not  of  so  stern  a  stuff  as 
the  Fellows  of  Magdalen,  who,  despite  His 
Majesty's  menaces,  had  just  rejected  Bishop 
Farmer.  The  Papist  was  elected,  there  and  then, 
al  fresco,  without  dissent.  Cannot  one  see  them, 
these  Fellows  of  Judas,  huddled  together  round 
the  sun-dial,  like  so  many  sheep  in  a  storm?    The 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  87 

King's  wrath,  according  to  a  contemporary  record, 
was  so  appeased  by  their  pliancy  that  he  deigned 
to  lie  for  two  nights  in  Judas,  and  at  a  grand 
refection  in  Hall  "was  gracious  and  merrie." 
Perhaps  it  was  in  lingering  gratitude  for  such 
patronage  that  Judas  remained  so  pious  to  his 
memory  even  after  smug  Herrenhausen  had  been 
dumped  down  on  us  for  ever.  Certainly,  of  all 
the  Colleges  none  was  more  ardent  than  Judas  for 
James  Stuart.  Thither  it  was  that  young  Sir 
Harry  Esson  led,  under  cover  of  night,  three- 
score recruits  whom  he  had  enlisted  in  the  sur- 
rounding villages.  The  cloisters  of  Salt  Cellar 
were  piled  with  arms  and  stores;  and  on  its  grass 
— its  sacred  grass! — the  squad  was  incessantly 
drilled,  against  the  good  day  when  Ormond  should 
land  his  men  in  Devon.  For  a  whole  month  Salt 
Cellar  was  a  secret  camp.  But  somehow,  at 
length — woe  to  "lost  causes  and  impossible  loyal- 
ties"— Herrenhausen  had  wind  of  it;  and  one 
night,  when  the  soldiers  of  the  white  cockade  lay 
snoring  beneath  the  stars,  stealthily  the  white- 
faced  Warden  unbarred  his  postern — that  very 
postern  through  which  now  Zuleika  had  passed 
on  the  way  to  her  bedroom — and  stealthily 
through  it,  one  by  one  on  tip-toe,  came  the  King's 
foot-guards.  Not  many  shots  rang  out,  nor  many 
swords  clashed,  in  the  night  air,  before  the  trick 
was  won  for  law  and  order.  Most  of  the  rebels 
were  overpowered  in  their  sleep;  and  those  who 


88  ZULEIK/V   DOBSON 

had  time  to  snatch  arms  were  too  dazed  to  make 
good  resistance.  Sir  Harry  Esson  himself  was  the 
only  one  who  did  not  live  to  be  hanged.  He  had 
sprung  up  alert,  sword  in  hand,  at  the  first  alarm, 
setting  his  back  to  the  cloisters.  There  he  fought 
calmly,  ferociously,  till  a  bullet  went  through  his 
chest.  "By  God,  this  College  is  well-named!" 
were  the  words  he  uttered  as  he  fell  forward  and 
died. 

Comparatively  tame  was  the  scene  now  being 
enacted  in  this  place.  The  Duke,  with  bowed 
head,  was  pacing  the  path  between  the  lawn  and 
the  cloisters.  Two  other  undergraduates  stood 
watching  him,  whispering  to  each  other,  under  the 
archway  that  leads  to  the  Front  Quadrangle. 
Presently,  in  a  sheepish  way,  they  approached 
him.     He  halted  and  looked  up. 

"I  say,"  stammered  the  spokesman. 

"Well?"  asked  the  Duke.  Both  youths  were 
slightly  acquainted  with  him;  but  he  w^as  not  used 
to  being  spoken  to  by  those  whom  he  had  not  first 
addressed.  Moreover,  he  was  loth  to  be  thus 
disturbed  in  his  sombre  reverie.  His  manner  was 
not  encouraging. 

"Isn't  it  a  lovely  day  for  the  Eights?"  faltered 
the  spokesman. 

"I  conceive,"  the  Duke  said,  "that  you  hold 
back  some  other  question." 

The  spokesman  smiled  weakly.  Nudged  by  the 
other,  he  muttered  "Ask  him  yourself!" 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  89 

The  Duke  diverted  his  gaze  to  the  other,  who, 
with  an  angry  look  at  the  one,  cleared  his  throat, 
and  said  "I  was  going  to  ask  if  you  thought  Miss 
Dobson  would  come  and  have  luncheon  with  me 
to-morrow?" 

"A  sister  of  mine  will  be  there,"  explained  the 
one,  knowing  the  Duke  to  be  a  precisian. 

"If  you  are  acquainted  with  Miss  Dobson,  a 
direct  invitation  should  be  sent  to  her,"  said  the 

Duke.     "If  you  are  not "     The  aposiopesis 

was  icy. 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  the  other  of  the  two, 
"that  is  just  the  difficulty.  I  am  acquainted  with 
her.  But  is  she  acquainted  with  mef  I  met  her 
at  breakfast  this  morning,  at  the  Warden's." 

"So  did  I,"  added  the  one. 

"But  she — well,"  continued  the  other,  "she 
didn't  take  much  notice  of  us.  She  seemed  to  be 
in  a  sort  of  dream." 

"Ah!"  murmured  the  Duke,  with  melancholy 
interest. 

"The  only  time  she  opened  her  lips,"  said  the 
other,  "was  when  she  asked  us  whether  we  took 
tea  or  coffee." 

"She  put  hot  milk  in  my  tea,"  volunteered  the 
one,  "and  upset  the  cup  over  my  hand,  and  smiled 
vaguely." 

"And  smiled  vaguely,"  sighed  the  Duke. 

"She  left  us  long  before  the  marmalade  stage," 
said  the  one. 


90  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

"Without  a  word,"  said  the  other. 

"Without  a  glance?"  asked  the  Duke.  It  was 
testified  by  the  one  and  the  other  that  there  had 
been  not  so  much  as  a  glance. 

"Doubtless,"  the  disingenuous  Duke  said,  "she 
had  a  headache.  .  .  Was  she  pale?" 

"Very  pale,"  answered  the  one. 

"A  healthy  pallor,"  qualified  the  other,  who 
was  a  constant  reader  of  novels. 

"Did  she  look,"  the  Duke  inquired,  "as  if  she 
had  spent  a  sleepless  night?" 

That  was  the  impression  made  on  both. 

"Yet  she  did  not  seem  listless  or  unhappy?" 

No,  they  would  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that. 

"Indeed,  were  her  eyes  of  an  almost  unnatural 
brilliance?" 

"Quite  unnatural,"  confessed  the  one. 

"Twin  stars,"  interpolated  the  other. 

"Did  she,  in  fact,  seem  to  be  consumed  by 
some  inward  rapture?" 

Yes,  now  they  came  to  think  of  it,  this  was 
exactly  how  she  had  seemed. 

It  was  sweet,  it  was  bitter,  for  the  Duke.  "I 
remember,"  Zuleika  had  said  to  him,  "nothing 
that  happened  to  me  this  morning  till  I  found 
myself  at  your  door."  It  was  bitter-sweet  to  have 
that  outline  filled  in  by  these  artless  pencils,  x'so, 
it  was  only  bitter,  to  be,  at  his  time  of  life,  living 
in  the  past. 

"The  purpose  of  your  tattle?"  he  asked  coldly. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSOiN  91 

The  two  youths  hurried  to  the  point  from  which 
he  had  diverted  them.  "When  she  went  by  with 
you  just  now,"  said  the  one,  "she  evidently  didn't 
know  us  from  Adam." 

"And  I  had  so  hoped  to  ask  her  to  luncheon," 
said  the  other. 

"Well?" 

"Well,  we  wondered  if  you  would  re-introduce 
us.    And  then  perhaps.  .  ." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  Duke  was  touched  to 
kindness  for  these  fellow-lovers.  He  would  fain 
preserve  them  from  the  anguish  that  beset  him- 
self.   So  humanising  is  sorrow. 

"You  are  in  love  with  Miss  Dobson?"  he  asked. 

Both  nodded. 

"Then,"  said  he,  "you  will  in  time  be  thankful 
to  me  for  not  affording  you  further  traffic  with 
that  lady.  To  love  and  be  scorned — does  Fate 
hold  for  us  a  greater  inconvenience?  You  think 
I  beg  the  question?  Let  me  tell  you  that  I,  too, 
love  Miss  Dobson,  and  that  she  scorns  me." 

To  the  implied  question  "What  chance  would 
there  be  for  you?"  the  reply  was  obvious. 

Amazed,  abashed,  the  two  youths  turned  on 
their  heels. 

"Stay!"  said  the  Duke.  "Let  me,  in  justice 
to  myself,  correct  an  inference  you  may  have 
drawn.  It  is  not  by  reason  of  any  defect  in  my- 
self, perceived  or  imagined,  that  Miss  Dobson 
scorns  me.     She  scorns  me  simply  because  I  love 


92  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

her.  All  who  love  her  she  scorns.  To  see  her 
is  to  love  her.  Therefore  shut  your  eyes  to  her. 
Strictly  exclude  her  from  your  horizon.  Ignore 
her.     Will  you  do  this?" 

"We  will  try,"  said  the  one,  after  a  pause. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  added  the  other. 

The  Duke  watched  them  out  of  sight.  He 
wished  he  could  take  the  good  advice  he  had  given 
them...  Suppose  he  did  take  it!  Suppose  he 
went  to  the  Bursar,  obtained  an  exeat,  fled  straight 
to  London!  What  just  humiliation  for  Zuleika 
to  come  down  and  find  her  captive  gone!  He 
pictured  her  staring  around  the  quadrangle, 
ranging  the  cloisters,  calling  to  him.  He  pictured 
her  rustling  to  the  gate  of  the  College,  inquiring 
at  the  porter's  lodge.  "His  Grace,  Miss,  he 
passed  through  a  minute  ago.  He's  going  down 
this  afternoon." 

Yet,  even  while  his  fancy  luxuriated  in  this 
scheme,  he  well  knew  that  he  would  not  accom- 
plish anything  of  the  kind — knew  well  that  he 
would  wait  here  humbly,  eagerly,  even  though 
Zuleika  lingered  over  her  toilet  till  crack  o'  doom. 
He  had  no  desire  that  was  not  centred  in  her. 
Take  away  his  love  for  her,  and  what  remained? 
Nothing — though  only  in  the  past  twenty-four 
hours  had  this  love  been  added  to  him.  Ah,  why 
had  he  ever  seen  her?  He  thought  of  his  past, 
its  cold  splendour  and  insouciance.  But  he  knew 
that  for  him  there  was  no  returning.     His  boats 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  93 

were  burnt.  The  Cytherean  babes  had  set  their 
torches  to  that  flotilla,  and  it  had  blazed  like 
match-wood.  On  the  Isle  of  the  enchantress  he 
was  stranded  for  ever.  For  ever  stranded  on  the 
isle  of  an  enchantress  who  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  him!  What,  he  wondered,  should  be  done 
in  so  piteous  a  quandary?  There  seemed  to  be 
two  courses.  One  was  to  pine  slowly  and  pain- 
fully away.     The  other.  .  . 

Academically,  the  Duke  had  often  reasoned 
that  a  man  for  whom  life  holds  no  chance  of 
happiness  cannot  too  quickly  shake  life  off.  Now, 
of  a  sudden,  there  was  for  that  theory  a  vivid 
application. 

"Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer"  was 
not  a  point  by  which  he,  "more  an  antique  Roman 
than  a  Dane,"  was  at  all  troubled.  Never  had  he 
given  ear  to  that  cackle  which  is  called  Public 
Opinion.  The  judgment  of  his  peers — this,  he 
had  often  told  himself,  was  the  sole  arbitrage  he 
could  submit  to;  but  then,  who  was  to  be  on  the 
bench?  Peerless,  he  was  Irresponsible — the  cap- 
tain of  his  soul,  the  despot  of  his  future.  No 
injunction  but  from  himself  would  he  bow  to; 
and  his  own  injunctions — so  little  Danish  was  he 
— had  always  been  peremptory  and  lucid.  Lucid 
and  peremptory,  now,  the  command  he  issued  to 
himself. 

"So  sorry  to  have  been  so  long,"  carolled  a 
voice  from  above.     The  Duke  looked  up.     "Pm 


94  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

all    but    ready,"  said    Zulcika    at    her    window. 

That  brief  apparition  changed  the  colour  of  his 
resolve.  He  realised  that  to  die  for  love  of  this 
lady  would  be  no  mere  measure  of  precaution,  or 
counsel  of  despair.  It  would  be  in  itself  a  pas- 
sionate indulgence — a  fiery  rapture,  not  to  be 
foregone.  What  better  could  he  ask  than  to  die 
for  his  love?  Poor  indeed  seemed  to  him  now 
the  sacrament  of  marriage  beside  the  sacra- 
ment of  death.  Death  was  incomparably  the 
greater,  the  finer  soul.  Death  was  the  one  true 
bridal. 

He  flung  back  his  head,  spread  wide  His  arms, 
quickened  his  pace  almost  to  running  speed.  Ah, 
he  would  win  his  bride  before  the  setting  of  the 
sun.  He  knew  not  by  what  means  he  would  win 
her.  Enough  that  even  now,  full-hearted,  fleet- 
footed,  he  was  on  his  way  to  her,  and  that  she 
heard  him  coming. 

When  Zuleika,  a  vision  in  vaporous  white,  came 
out  through  the  postern,  she  wondered  why  he 
was  walking  at  so  remarkable  a  pace.  To  him, 
wildly  expressing  in  his  movement  the  thought 
within  him,  she  appeared  as  his  awful  bride.  With 
a  cry  of  joy,  he  bounded  towards  her,  and  would 
have  caught  her  in  his  arms,  had  she  not  stepped 
nimbly  aside. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "It  was 
a  mistake — an  idiotic  mistake  of  identity.  I 
thought  you  were.  .  ." 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  95 

Zulelka,  rigid,  asked  "Have  I  many  doubles?" 

"You  know  well  that  in  all  the  world  is  none 
so  blest  as  to  be  like  you.  I  can  only  say  that 
I  was  over-wrought.  I  can  only  say  that  it  shall 
not  occur  again." 

She  was  very  angry  indeed.  Of  his  penitence 
there  could  be  no  doubt.  But  there  are  outrages 
for  which  no  penitence  can  atone.  This  seemed 
to  be  one  of  them.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  dis- 
miss the  Duke  forthwith  and  for  ever.  But  she 
wanted  to  show  herself  at  the  races.  And  she 
could  not  go  alone.  And  except  the  Duke  there 
was  no  one  to  take  her.  True,  there  was  the  con- 
cert to-night;  and  she  could  show  herself  there  to 
advantage;  but  she  wanted  all  Oxford  to  see  her 
— see  her  now. 

"I  am  forgiven?"  he  asked.  In  her,  I  am 
afraid,  self-respect  outweighed  charity.  "I  will 
try,"  she  said  merely,  "to  forget  what  you  have 
done."  Motioning  him  to  her  side,  she  opened 
her  parasol,  and  signified  her  readiness  to  start. 

They  passed  together  across  the  vast  gravelled 
expanse  of  the  Front  Quadrangle.  In  the  porch 
of  the  College  there  were,  as  usual,  some  chained- 
up  dogs,  patiently  awaiting  their  masters.  Zuleika, 
of  course,  did  not  care  for  dogs.  One  has  never 
known  a  good  man  to  whom  dogs  were  not  dear; 
but  many  of  the  best  women  have  no  such  fond- 
ness. You  will  find  that  the  woman  who  is  really 
kind  to   dogs  is   always  one  who  has  failed  to 


96  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

inspire  sympathy  in  men.  For  the  attractive 
woman,  dogs  arc  mere  dumb  and  restless  brutes — 
possibly  dangerous,  certainly  soulless.  Yet  will 
coquetry  teach  her  to  caress  any  dog  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  man  enslaved  by  her.  Even  Zuleika,  it 
seems,  was  not  above  this  rather  obvious  device 
for  awaking  envy.  Be  sure  she  did  not  at  all  like 
the  look  of  the  very  big  bulldog  who  was  squatting 
outside  the  porter's  lodge.  Perhaps,  but  for  her 
present  anger,  she  would  not  have  stooped  en- 
dearingly down  to  him,  as  she  did,  cooing  over 
him  and  trying  to  pat  his  head.  Alas,  her  pretty 
act  was  a  failure.  The  bulldog  cowered  away 
from  her,  horrifically  grimacing.  This  was 
strange.  Like  the  majority  of  his  breed,  Corker 
(for  such  was  his  name)  had  ever  been  wistful 
to  be  noticed  by  any  one — effusively  grateful  for 
every  word  or  pat,  an  ever-ready  wagger  and 
nuzzler,  to  none  ineffable.  No  beggar,  no  burglar, 
had  ever  been  rebuflfed  by  this  catholic  beast.  But 
he  drew  the  line  at  Zuleika. 

Seldom  is  even  a  fierce  bulldog  heard  to  growl. 
Yet  Corker  growled  at  Zuleika. 


VII 


The  Duke  did  not  try  to  break  the  stony  silence 
in  which  Zuleika  walked.  Her  displeasure  was  a 
luxury  to  him,  for  it  was  so  soon  to  be  dispelled. 
A  little  while,  and  she  would  be  hating  herself  for 
her  pettiness.  Here  was  he,  going  to  die  for  her; 
and  here  was  she,  blaming  him  for  a  breach  of 
manners.  Decidedly,  the  slave  had  the  whip- 
hand.  He  stole  a  sidelong  look  at  her,  and  could 
not  repress  a  smile.  His  features  quickly  com- 
posed themselves.  The  Triumph  of  Death  must 
not  be  handled  as  a  cheap  score.  He  wanted  to 
die  because  he  would  thereby  so  poignantly  con- 
summate his  love,  express  it  so  completely,  once 
and  for  all.  .  .  And  she — who  could  say  that  she, 
knowing  what  he  had  done,  might  not,  illogically, 
come  to  love  him?  Perhaps  she  would  devote  her 
life  to  mourning  him.  He  saw  her  bending  over 
his  tomb,  in  beautiful  humble  curves,  under  a  star- 
less sky,  watering  the  violets  with  her  tears. 

Shades  of  Novalis  and  Friedrich  Schlegel  and 
other  despicable  maunderers!  He  brushed  them 
aside.  He  would  be  practical.  The  point  was, 
when  and  how  to  die?     Time:  the  sooner  the 

97 


98  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

better.  Manner:  .  .  less  easy  to  determine.  He 
must  not  die  horribly,  nor  without  dignity.  The 
manner  of  the  Roman  philosophers?  But  the 
only  kind  of  bath  which  an  undergraduate  can 
command  is  a  hip-bath.  Stay!  there  was  the 
river.  Drowning  (he  had  often  heard)  was  a 
rather  pleasant  sensation.  And  to  the  river  he 
was  even  now  on  his  way. 

It  troubled  him  that  he  could  swim.  Twice, 
indeed,  from  his  yacht,  he  had  swum  the 
Hellespont.  And  how  about  the  animal  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  strong  even  in  despair?  No 
matter!  His  soul's  set  purpose  would  subdue 
that.  The  law  of  gravitation  that  brings  one  to 
the  surface?  There  his  very  skill  in  swimming 
would  help  him.  He  would  swim  under  water, 
along  the  river-bed,  swim  till  he  found  weeds  to 
cling  to,  weird  strong  weeds  that  he  would  coil 
round  him,  exulting  faintly.  .  . 

As  they  turned  into  Radcliffe  Square,  the  Duke's 
car  caught  the  sound  of  a  far-distant  gun.  He 
started,  and  looked  up  at  the  clock  of  St.  Mary's. 
Half-past  four!     The  boats  had  started. 

He  had  heard  that  whenever  a  woman  was 
to  blame  for  a  disappointment,  the  best  way  to 
avoid  a  scene  was  to  inculpate  oneself.  He  did 
not  wish  Zuleika  to  store  up  yet  more  material 
for  penitence.  And  so  "I  am  sorry,"  he  said. 
"That  gun — did  you  hear  it?  It  was  the  signal 
for  the  race.     I  shall  never  forgive  myself." 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  99 

"Then  we  shan't  see  the  race  at  all?"  cried 
Zulelka. 

"It  will  be  over,  alas,  before  we  are  near  the 
river.  All  the  people  will  be  coming  back  through 
the  meadows." 

"Let  us  meet  them." 

"Meet  a  torrent?  Let  us  have  tea  in  my  rooms 
and  go  down  quietly  for  the  other  Division." 

"Let  us  go  straight  on." 

Through  the  square,  across  the  High,  down 
Grove  Street,  they  passed.  The  Duke  looked  up 
at  the  tower  of  Merton,  go5  ovttot^  avOii  aXXa 
vvv  navvGTatov,  Strange  that  to-night  it  would 
still  be  standing  here,  in  all  its  sober  and  solid 
beauty — still  be  gazing,  over  the  roofs  and  chim- 
neys, at  the  tower  of  Magdalen,  its  rightful  bride. 
Through  untold  centuries  of  the  future  it  would 
stand  thus,  gaze  thus.  He  winced.  Oxford  walls 
have  a  way  of  belittling  us;  and  the  Duke  was 
loth  to  regard  his  doom  as  trivial. 

Aye,  by  all  minerals  we  are  mocked.  Vegeta- 
bles, yearly  deciduous,  are  far  more  sympathetic. 
The  lilac  and  laburnum,  making  lovely  now  the 
railed  pathway  to  Christ  Church  meadow,  were 
all  a-swaying  and  a-nodding  to  the  Duke  as  he 
passed  by.  "Adieu,  adieu,  your  Grace,"  they 
were  whispering.  "We  are  very  sorry  for  you — 
very  sorry  indeed.  We  never  dared  suppose  you 
would  predecease  us.  We  think  your  death  a  very 
great  tragedy.    Adieu!     Perhaps  we  shall  meet  in 


loo  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

another  world — that  is,  if  the  members  of  the 
animal  kingdom  have  immortal  souls,  as  we 
have." 

The  Duke  was  little  versed  in  their  language; 
yet,  as  he  passed  between  these  gently  garrulous 
blooms,  he  caught  at  least  the  drift  of  their  salu- 
tation, and  smiled  a  vague  but  courteous  acknowl- 
edgment, to  the  right  and  the  left  alternately, 
creating  a  very  favourable  impression. 

No  doubt,  the  young  elms  lining  the  straight 
way  to  the  barges  had  seen  him  coming;  but  any 
whispers  of  their  leaves  were  lost  in  the  murmur 
of  the  crowd  returning  from  the  race.  Here,  at 
length,  came  the  torrent  of  which  the  Duke  had 
spoken;  and  Zuleika's  heart  rose  at  it.  Here  was 
Oxford!  From  side  to  side  the  avenue  was  filled 
with  a  dense  procession  of  youths — youths  inter- 
spersed with  maidens  w^hose  parasols  were  as 
flotsam  and  jetsam  on  a  seething  current  of  straw 
hats.  Zuleika  neither  quickened  nor  slackened 
her  advance.  But  brightlier  and  brightlier  shone 
her  eyes. 

The  vanguard  of  the  procession  was  pausing 
now,  swaying,  breaking  at  sight  of  her.  She 
passed,  imperial,  through  the  way  cloven  for  her. 
All  a-down  the  avenue,  the  throng  parted  as 
though  some  great  invisible  comb  were  being 
drawn  through  it.  The  few  youths  who  had 
already  seen  Zuleika,  and  by  whom  her  beauty 
had  been  bruited  throughout  the  University,  were 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  lor 

lost  in  a  new  wonder,  so  incomparably  fairer  was 
she  than  the  remembered  vision.  And  the  rest 
hardly  recognised  her  from  the  descriptions,  so 
incomparably  fairer  was  the  reality  than  the 
hope. 

She  passed  among  them.  None  questioned  the 
worthiness  of  her  escort.  Could  I  give  you  better 
proof  the  awe  in  which  our  Duke  was  held?  Any 
man  is  glad  to  be  seen  escorting  a  very  pretty 
woman.  He  thinks  it  adds  to  his  prestige. 
Whereas,  in  point  of  fact,  his  fellow-men  are  say- 
ing merely  "Who's  that  appalling  fellow  with 
her?"  or  "Why  does  she  go  about  with  that  ass 
So-and-So?"  Such  cavil  may  in  part  be  envy.  But 
it  is  a  fact  that  no  man,  howsoever  graced,  can 
shine  in  juxtaposition  to  a  very  pretty  woman. 
The  Duke  himself  cut  a  poor  figure  beside  Zu- 
leika.  Yet  not  one  of  all  the  undergraduates  felt 
she  could  have  made  a  wiser  choice. 

She  swept  among  them.  Her  own  Intrinsic 
radiance  was  not  all  that  flashed  from  her.  She 
was  a  moving  reflector  and  refractor  of  all  the 
rays  of  all  the  eyes  that  mankind  had  turned  on 
her.  Her  mien  told  the  story  of  her  days.  Bright 
eyes,  light  feet — she  trod  erect  from  a  vista  whose 
glare  was  dazzling  to  all  beholders.  She  swept 
among  them,  a  miracle,  overwhelming,  breath- 
bereaving.  Nothing  at  all  like  her  had  ever  been 
seen  in  Oxford. 

Mainly  architectural,  the  beauties  of  Oxford. 


102  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

True,  the  place  is  no  longer  one-sexcd.  There 
are  the  \irguncules  of  Somerville  and  Lady  Mar- 
garet's Hall;  but  beauty  and  the  lust  for  learning 
have  yet  to  be  allied.  There  are  the  innumerable 
wives  and  daughters  around  the  Parks,  running 
in  and  out  of  their  little  red-brick  villas;  but  the 
indignant  shade  of  celibacy  seems  to  have  called 
down  on  the  dons  a  Nemesis  which  precludes  them 
from  either  marrying  beauty  or  begetting  it. 
(From  the  Warden's  son,  that  unhappy  curate, 
Zuleika  inherited  no  tittle  of  her  charm.  Some  of 
it,  there  is  no  doubt,  she  did  inherit  from  the 
circus-rider  who  was  her  mother.) 

But  the  casual  feminine  visitors?  Well,  the 
sisters  and  cousins  of  an  undergraduate  seldom 
seem  more  passable  to  his  comrades  than  to  him- 
self. Altogether,  the  instinct  of  sex  is  not  pan- 
dered to  in  Oxford.  It  is  not,  however,  as  it  may 
once  have  been,  dormant.  The  modern  importation 
of  samples  of  femininity  serves  to  keep  it  alert, 
though  not  to  gratify  it.  A  like  result  is  achieved 
by  another  modern  development — photography. 
The  undergraduate  may,  and  usually  does,  sur- 
round himself  with  photographs  of  pretty  ladies 
known  to  the  public.  A  phantom  harem  !  Yet  the 
houris  have  an  effect  on  their  sultan.  Surrounded 
both  by  plain  women  of  flesh  and  blood  and  by 
beauteous  women  on  pasteboard,  the  undergradu- 
ate is  the  easiest  victim  of  living  loveliness — is  as 
a  fire  ever  well   and  truly  laid,   amenable  to   a 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  103 

spark.  And  If  the  spark  be  such  a  flaring 
torch  as  Zulelka? — marvel  not,  reader,  at  the 
conflagration. 

Not  only  was  the  whole  throng  of  youths 
drawing  asunder  before  her:  much  of  it,  as  she 
passed,  was  forming  up  In  her  wake.  Thus,  with 
the  confluence  of  two  masses — one  coming  away 
from  the  river,  the  other  returning  to  it — chaos 
seethed  around  her  and  the  Duke  before  they 
were  half-way  along  the  avenue.  Behind  them, 
and  on  either  side  of  them,  the  people  were 
crushed  inextricably  together,  swaying  and  surg- 
ing this  way  and  that.  "Help!"  cried  many  a 
shrill  feminine  voice.  "Don't  push!"  "Let  me 
out!"  "You  brute!"  "Save  me,  save  me!" 
Many  ladles  fainted,  whilst  their  escorts,  support- 
ing them  and  protecting  them  as  best  they  could, 
peered  over  the  heads  of  their  fellows  for  one 
glimpse  of  the  divine  Miss  Dobson.  Yet  for  her 
and  the  Duke,  In  the  midst  of  the  terrific  com- 
press, there  was  space  enough.  In  front  of  them, 
as  by  a  miracle  of  deference,  a  way  still  cleared 
Itself.  They  reached  the  end  of  the  avenue  with- 
out a  pause  In  their  measured  progress.  Nor  even 
when  they  turned  to  the  left,  along  the  rather  nar- 
row path  beside  the  barges,  was  there  any  ob- 
stacle to  their  advance.  Passing  evenly  forward, 
they  alone  were  cool,  unhustlcd,  undishevelled. 

The  Duke  was  so  rapt  in  his  private  thoughts 
that  he  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  strange  scene. 


104  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

And  as  for  Zuleika,  she,  as  well  she  might  be, 
was  in  the  very  best  of  good  humours. 

"What  a  lot  of  house-boats!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Are  you  going  to  take  me  on  to  one  of  them?" 

The  Duke  started.  Already  they  were  along- 
side the  Judas  barge.  "Here,"  he  said,  "Is  our 
goal." 

He  stepped  through  the  gate  of  the  railings, 
out  upon  the  plank,  and  offered  her  his  hand. 

She  looked  back.  The  young  men  in  the  van- 
guard were  crushing  their  shoulders  against  the 
row  behind  them,  to  stay  the  oncoming  host.  She 
had  half  a  mind  to  go  back  through  the  midst  of 
them;  but  she  really  did  want  her  tea,  and  she 
followed  the  Duke  on  to  the  barge,  and  under  his 
auspices  climbed  the  steps  to  the  roof. 

It  looked  very  cool  and  gay,  this  roof,  under  its 
awning  of  red  and  white  stripes.  Nests  of  red 
and  white  flowers  depended  along  either  side  of 
it.  Zuleika  moved  to  the  side  which  commanded 
a  view  of  the  bank.  She  leaned  her  arms  on  the 
balustrade,  and  gazed  down. 

The  crowd  stretched  as  far  as  she  could  see — 
a  vista  of  faces  upturned  to  her.  Suddenly  it  hove 
forward.  Its  vanguard  was  swept  irresistibly 
past  the  barge — swept  by  the  desire  of  the  rest 
to  see  her  at  closer  quarters.  Such  was  the  im- 
petus that  the  vision  for  each  man  was  but  a 
lightning-flash:  he  was  whirled  past,   struggling, 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  105 

almost  before  his  brain  took  the  message  of  his 
eyes. 

Those  who  were  Judas  men  made  frantic  ef- 
forts to  board  the  barge,  trying  to  hurl  them- 
selves through  the  gate  In  the  railings;  but  they 
were  swept  vainly  on. 

Presently  the  torrent  began  to  slacken,  became 
a  mere  river,  a  mere  procession  of  youths  staring 
up  rather  shyly. 

Before  the  last  stragglers  had  marched  by, 
Zulelka  moved  away  to  the  other  side  of  the  roof, 
and,  after  a  glance  at  the  sunlit  river,  sank  Into 
one  of  the  wicker  chairs,  and  asked  the  Duke 
to  look  less  disagreeable  and  to  give  her  some  tea. 

Among  others  hovering  near  the  little  buffet 
were  the  two  youths  whose  parley  with  the  Duke 
I  have  recorded. 

Zulelka  was  aware  of  the  special  persistence  of 
their  gaze.  When  the  Duke  came  back  with  her 
cup,  she  asked  him  who  they  were.  He  replied, 
truthfully  enough,  that  their  names  were  unknown 
to  him. 

"Then,"  she  said,  "ask  them  their  names,  and 
introduce  them  to  me." 

"No,"  said  the  Duke,  sinking  Into  the  chair 
beside  her.  "That  I  shall  not  do.  I  am  your 
victim:  not  your  pander.  Those  two  men  stand 
on  the  threshold  of  a  possibly  useful  and  agree- 
able career.  I  am  not  going  to  trip  them  up  for 
you." 


io6  ZULETKA   DOBSON 

"I  am  not  sure,"  said  Zuleika,  "that  you  are 
very  polite.  Certainly  you  are  foolish.  It  is  nat- 
ural for  boys  to  fall  in  love.  If  these  two  are  in 
love  with  me,  why  not  let  them  talk  to  me?  It 
were  an  experience  on  which  they  would  always 
look  back  with  romantic  pleasure.  They  may 
never  see  me  again.  Why  grudge  them  this  little 
thing?"  She  sipped  her  tea.  "As  for  tripping 
them  up  on  a  threshold — that  is  all  nonsense. 
What  harm  has  unrequited  love  ever  done  to  any- 
body?" She  laughed.  "Look  at  me!  When  I 
came  to  your  rooms  this  morning,  thinking  I  loved 
in  vain,  did  I  seem  one  jot  the  worse  for  it?  Did 
I  look  different?" 

"You  looked,  I  am  bound  to  say,  nobler,  more 
spiritual." 

"More  spiritual?"  she  exclaimed.  "Do  you 
mean  I  looked  tired  or  ill?" 

"Nq,  you  seemed  quite  fresh.  But  then,  you 
are  singular.    You  are  no  criterion." 

"You  mean  you  can't  judge  those  two  young 
men  by  me?  Well,  I  am  only  a  woman,  of  course. 
I  have  heard  of  women,  no  longer  young,  wasting 
away  because  no  man  loved  them.  I  have  often 
heard  of  a  young  woman  fretting  because  some 
particular  young  man  didn't  love  her.  But  I  never 
heard  of  her  wasting  away.  Certainly  a  young 
man  doesn't  waste  away  for  love  of  some  partic- 
ular young  woman.  He  very  soon  makes  love 
to  some  other  one.     If  his  be  an  ardent  nature, 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  107 

the  quicker  his  transition.  All  the  most  ardent  of 
my  past  adorers  have  married.  Will  you  put  my 
cup  down,  please?" 

"Past?"  echoed  the  Duke,  as  he  placed  her  cup 
on  the  floor,  "Have  any  of  your  lovers  ceased  to 
love  you?" 

"Ah  no,  no;  not  in  retrospect.  I  remain  their 
ideal,  and  all  that,  of  course.  They  cherish  the 
thought  of  me.  They  see  the  world  in  terms  of 
me.  But  I  am  an  inspiration,  not  an  obsession; 
a  glow,  not  a  blight." 

"You  don't  believe  in  the  love  that  corrodes, 
the  love  that  ruins?" 

"No,"  laughed  Zuleika. 

"You  have  never  dipped  into  the  Greek  pas- 
toral poets,  nor  sampled  the  Elizabethan  son- 
neteers?" 

"No,  never.  You  will  think  me  lamentably 
crude :  my  experience  of  life  has  been  drawn  from 
life  itself." 

"Yet  often  you  talk  as  though  you  had  read 
rather  much.  Your  way  of  speech  has  what  is 
called  'the  literary  flavour'." 

"Ah,  that  is  an  unfortunate  trick  which  I  caught 
from  a  writer,  a  Mr.  Beerbohm,  who  once  sat 
next  to  me  at  dinner  somewhere.  I  can't  break 
myself  of  it.  I  assure  you  I  hardly  ever  open  a 
book.  Of  life,  though,  my  experience  has  been 
very  wide.  Brief?  But  I  suppose  the  soul  of 
man  during  the  past  two  or  three  years  has  been 


io8  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

niucli  as  It  was  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
and  of — whoever  it  was  that  reigned  over  the 
Greek  pastures.  And  I  daresay  the  modern  poets 
are  making  the  same  old  silly  distortions.  But 
forgive  me,"  she  added  gently,  "perhaps  you 
yourself  are  a  poet?" 

"Only  since  yesterday,"  answered  the  Duke 
(not  less  unfairly  to  himself  than  to  Roger  New- 
digate  and  Thomas  Gaisford).  And  he  felt  he 
was  especially  a  dramatic  poet.  All  the  while 
that  she  had  been  sitting  by  him  here,  talking  so 
glibly,  looking  so  straight  into  his  eyes,  flashing 
at  him  so  many  pretty  gestures,  it  was  the  sense 
of  tragic  Irony  that  prevailed  In  him — that  sense 
which  had  stirred  In  him,  and  been  repressed,  on 
the  way  from  Judas.  He  knew  that  she  was  mak- 
ing her  effect  consciously  for  the  other  young 
men  by  whom  the  roof  of  the  barge  was  now 
thronged.  Him  alone  she  seemed  to  observe.  By 
her  manner,  she  might  have  seemed  to  be  making 
love  to  him.  He  envied  the  men  she  was  so  de- 
liberately making  envious — the  men  whom,  in  her 
undertone  to  him,  she  was  really  addressing.  But 
he  did  take  comfort  in  the  irony.  Though  she 
used  him  as  a  stalking-horse,  he,  after  all,  was 
playing  with  her  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse. 
While  she  chattered  on,  without  an  inkling  that 
he  was  no  ordinary  lover,  and  coaxing  him  to  pre- 
sent two  quite  ordinary  young  men  to  her,  he  held 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  109 

over  her  the  revelation  that  he  for  love  of  her 
was  about  to  die. 

And,  while  he  drank  in  the  radiance  of  her 
beauty,  he  heard  her  chattering  on.  "So  you  see," 
she  was  saying,  "it  couldn't  do  those  young  men 
any  harm.  Suppose  unrequited  love  is  anguish : 
isn't  the  discipline  wholesome?  Suppose  I  am 
a  sort  of  furnace:  shan't  I  purge,  refine,  temper? 
Those  two  boys  are  but  scorched  from  here.  That 
is  horrid;  and  what  good  will  it  do  them?"  She 
laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  "Cast  them  into  the  fur- 
nace for  their  own  sake,  dear  Duke !  Or  cast  one 
of  them,  or,"  she  added,  glancing  round  at  the 
throng,  "any  one  of  these  others!" 

"For  their  own  sake?"  he  echoed,  withdrawing 
his  arm.  "If  you  were  not,  as  the  whole  world 
knows  you  to  be,  perfectly  respectable,  there 
might  be  something  in  what  you  say.  But  as  it  is, 
you  can  but  be  an  engine  for  mischief;  and  your 
sophistries  leave  me  unmoved.  I  shall  certainly 
keep  you  to  myself." 

"I  hate  you,"  said  Zuleika,  with  an  ugly  petu- 
lance that  crowned  the  irony. 

"So  long  as  I  live,"  uttered  the  Duke,  in  a 
level  voice,  "you  will  address  no  man  but  me." 

"If  your  prophecy  is  to  be  fulfilled,"  laughed 
Zuleika,  rising  from  her  chair,  "your  last  moment 
is  at  hand." 

"It  is,"  he  answered,  rising  too. 


no  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  awed  by 
something  in  his  tone. 

"I  mean  what  I  say:  that  my  last  moment  is 
at  hand."  He  withdrew  his  eyes  from  hers,  and, 
leaning  his  elbows  on  the  balustrade,  gazed 
thoughtfully  at  the  river.  "When  I  am  dead,"' 
he  added,  over  his  shoulder,  "you  will  find  these 
fellows  rather  coy  of  your  advances." 

For  the  first  time  since  his  avowal  of  his  love 
for  her,  Zuleika  found  herself  genuinely  inter- 
ested in  him.  A  suspicion  of  his  meaning  had 
flashed  through  her  soul. — But  no !  surely  he  could 
not  mean  that!  It  must  have  been  a  metaphor 
merely.  And  yet,  something  in  his  eyes.  .  .  She 
leaned  beside  him.  Her  shoulder  touched  his. 
She  gazed  questioningly  at  him.  He  did  not  turn 
his  face  to  her.    He  gazed  at  the  sunlit  river. 

The  Judas  Eight  had  just  embarked  for  their 
voyage  to  the  starting-point.  Standing  on  the 
edge  of  the  raft  that  makes  a  floating  platform 
for  the  barge,  William,  the  hoary  bargee,  was 
pushing  them  off  with  his  boat-hook,  wishing  them 
luck  with  deferential  familiarity.  The  raft  was 
thronged  with  Old  Judasians — mostly  clergymen 
— who  were  shouting  hearty  hortations,  and  evi- 
dently trying  not  to  appear  so  old  as  they  felt — 
or  rather,  not  to  appear  so  startlingly  old  as  their 
contemporaries  looked  to  them.  It  occurred  to 
the  Duke  as  a  strange  thing,  and  a  thing  to  be 
glad  of,  that  he,  in  this  world,  would  never  be 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  iii 

an  Old  Judasian.  Zuleika's  shoulder  pressed  his. 
He  thrilled  not  at  all.  To  all  Intents,  he  was 
dead  already. 

The  enormous  eight  young  men  In  the  thread- 
like skiff — the  skiff  that  would  scarce  have  seemed 
an  adequate  vehicle  for  the  tiny  "cox"  who  sat 
facing  them — were  staring  up  at  Zulelka  with 
that  uniformity  of  Impulse  which,  In  another 
direction,  had  enabled  them  to  bump  a  boat  on 
two  of  the  previous  "nights."  If  to-night  they 
bumped  the  next  boat,  Univ.,  then  would  Judas 
be  three  places  "up"  on  the  river;  and  to-morrow 
Judas  would  have  a  Bump  Supper.  Furthermore, 
if  Univ.  were  bumped  to-night,  Magdalen  might 
be  bumped  to-morrow.  Then  would  Judas,  for 
the  first  time  in  history,  be  head  of  the  river.  Oh 
tremulous  hope  I  Yet,  for  the  moment,  these 
eight  young  men  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the 
awful  responsibility  that  rested  on  their  over- 
developed shoulders.  Their  hearts,  already 
strained  by  rowing,  had  been  transfixed  this  after- 
noon by  Eros'  darts.  All  of  them  had  seen  Zu- 
lelka as  she  came  down  to  the  river;  and  now 
they  sat  gaping  up  at  her,  fumbling  with  their 
oars.  The  tiny  cox  gaped  too;  but  he  it  was  who 
first  recalled  duty.  With  piping  adjurations  he 
brought  the  giants  back  to  their  senses.  The  boat 
moved  away  down  stream,  with  a  fairly  steady 
stroke. 

Not  In  a  day  can  the  traditions  of  Oxford  be 


112  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

sent  spinning.  From  all  the  barges  the  usual 
punt-loads  of  young  men  were  being  ferried  across 
to  the  towing-path — young  men  naked  of  knee, 
armed  with  rattles,  post-horns,  motor-hooters, 
gongs,  and  other  instruments  of  clangour.  Though 
Zuleika  filled  their  thoughts,  they  hurried  along 
the  towing-path,  as  by  custom,  to  the  starting- 
point. 

She,  meanwhile,  had  not  taken  her  eyes  off  the 
Duke's  profile.  Nor  had  she  dared,  for  fear  of 
disappointment,  to  ask  him  just  what  he  had 
meant. 

"All  these  men,"  he  repeated  dreamily,  "will 
be  coy  of  your  advances."  It  seemed  to  him  a 
good  thing  that  his  death,  his  awful  example, 
would  disinfatuate  his  fellow  alumni.  He  had 
never  been  conscious  of  public  spirit.  He  had 
lived  for  himself  alone.  Love  had  come  to  him 
yesternight,  and  to-day  had  waked  in  him  a  sym- 
pathy with  mankind.  It  was  a  fine  thing  to  be  a 
saviour.  It  was  splendid  to  be  human.  He  looked 
quickly  round  to  her  who  had  wrought  this 
change  in  him. 

But  the  loveliest  face  in  all  the  w^orld  will  not 
please  you  if  you  see  it  suddenly,  eye  to  eye,  at  a 
distance  of  half  an  inch  from  your  own.  It  was 
thus  that  the  Duke  saw  Zuleika's :  a  monstrous 
deliqulum  a-glare.  Only  for  the  fraction  of  an 
instant,  though.  Recoiling,  he  beheld  the  loveli- 
ness that  he  knew — more  adorably  vivid  now  in 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  1131 

Its  look  of  eager  questioning.  And  In  his  every 
fibre  he  thrilled  to  her.  Even  so  had  she  gazed  at 
him  last  night,  this  morning.  Aye,  now  as  then, 
her  soul  was  full  of  him.  He  had  recaptured,  not 
her  love,  but  his  power  to  please  her.  It  was 
enough.  He  bowed  his  head;  and  Moriturus  te 
saluto  were  the  words  formed  silently  by  his  lips. 
He  was  glad  that  his  death  would  be  a  public 
service  to  the  University.  But  the  salutary  lesson 
of  what  the  newspapers  would  call  his  "rash  act" 
was,  after  all,  only  a  side-issue.  The  great  thing, 
the  prospect  that  flushed  his  cheek,  was  the  con- 
summation of  his  own  love,  for  Its  own  sake,  by 
his  own  death.  And,  as  he  met  her  gaze,  the 
question  that  had  already  flitted  through  his  brain 
found  a  faltering  utterance ;  and  "Shall  you  mourn 
me?"  he  asked  her. 

But  she  would  have  no  ellipses.  "What  are 
vou  going  to  do?"  she  whispered. 

"Do  you  not  know?" 

"Tell  me." 

"Once  and  for  all:  you  cannot  love  me?" 

Slowly  she  shook  her  head.  The  black  pearl 
and  the  pink,  quivering,  gave  stress  to  her  ulti- 
matum. But  the  violet  of  her  eyes  was  all  but 
hidden  by  the  dilation  of  her  pupils. 

"Then,"  whispered  the  Duke,  "when  I  shall 
have  died,  deeming  life  a  vain  thing  without  you, 
will  the  gods  give  you  tears  for  me?  Miss  Dob- 
son,  will  your  soul  awaken?    When  I  shall  have 


114  ZULF.IKA    DOBSON 

sunk  li)r  ever  beneath  these  waters  whose  sup- 
posed purpose  here  this  afternoon  is  but  that  tliey 
be  pUnit2;hed  by  the  bhides  of  these  young  oars- 
men, will  there  be  struck  from  that  flint,  your 
heart,  some  late  and  momentary  spark  of  pity 
for  me?" 

"Why  of  course,  of  course!"  babbled  Zulcika, 
with  clasped  hands  and  dazzling  eyes.  "But," 
she  curbed  herself,  "it  is — it  would — oh,  you 
mustn't  think  of  it!  I  couldn't  allow  it!  I — I 
should  never  forgive  myself!" 

"In  fact,  you  would  mourn  me  always?" 

"Why  yes!..  Y-es— always."  What  else 
could  she  say?  But  would  his  answer  be  that  he 
dared  not  condemn  her  to  lifelong  torment? 

"Then,"  his  answer  was,  "my  joy  in  dying  for 
you  Is  made  perfect." 

Her  muscles  relaxed.  Her  breath  escaped  be- 
tween her  teeth.  "You  are  utterly  resolved?"  she 
•asked.     "Are  you?" 

"Utterly." 

"Nothing  I  might  say  could  change  your 
purpose?" 

"Nothing." 

"No  entreaty,  howsoever  piteous,  could  move 
you?" 

"xXone." 

Forthwith  she  urged,  entreated,  cajoled,  com- 
manded, with  infinite  prettiness  of  Ingenuity  and 
of  eloquence.     Never  was  such  a  cascade  of  dis- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  115 

suasion  as  hers.  She  only  didn't  say  she  could 
love  him.  She  never  hinted  that.  Indeed, 
throughout  her  pleading  rang  this  recurrent 
motif:  that  he  must  live  to  take  to  himself  as 
mate  some  good,  serious,  clever  woman  who 
would  be  a  not  unworthy  mother  of  his  children. 

She  laid  stress  on  his  youth,  his  great  position, 
his  brilliant  attainments,  the  much  he  had  already 
achieved,  the  splendid  possibilities  of  his  future. 
Though  of  course  she  spoke  In  undertones,  not 
to  be  overheard  by  the  throng  on  the  barge,  it 
was  almost  as  though  his  health  were  being  flor- 
idly proposed  at  some  public  banquet — say,  at  a 
Tenants'  Dinner.  Insomuch  that,  when  she 
ceased,  the  Duke  half  expected  Jellings,  his 
steward,  to  bob  up  uttering,  with  lifted  hands, 
a  stentorian  "For-or,"  and  all  the  company  to 
take  up  the  chant:  "he's — a  jolly  good  fellow." 
His  brief  reply,  on  those  occasions,  seemed  al- 
ways to  indicate  that,  whatever  else  he  might  be, 
a  jolly  good  fellow  he  was  not.  But  by  Zuleika's 
eulogy  he  really  was  touched.  "Thank  you — 
thank  you,"  he  gasped;  and  there  were  tears  in 
his  eyes.  Dear  the  thought  that  she  so  revered 
him,  so  wished  him  not  to  die.  But  this  was  no 
more  than  a  rush-light  in  the  austere  radiance  of 
his  joy  In  dying  for  her. 

And  the  time  was  come.  Now  for  the  sacra- 
ment of  his  immersion  in  infinity. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  simply,  and  was  about  to 


ii6  ZULFIKA    DOBSON 

swing  himself  on  to  the  ledge  of  the  halustradc. 
Zuleika.  divining  his  intention,  made  way  for  him. 
Her  bosom  heaved  quickly,  quickly.  All  colour 
had  left  her  face;  but  her  eyes  shone  as  never 
before. 

Already  his  foot  was  on  the  ledge,  when  hark! 
the  sound  of  a  distant  gun.  To  Zuleika,  with  all 
the  chords  of  her  soul  strung  to  the  utmost  tensity, 
the  effect  was  as  if  she  herself  had  been  shot;  and 
she  clutched  at  the  Duke's  arm,  like  a  frightened 
child.  He  laughed.  "It  was  the  signal  for  the 
race,"  he  said,  and  laughed  again,  rather  bitterly, 
at  the  crude  and  trivial  interruption  of  high 
matters. 

"The  race?"     She  laughed  hysterically. 

"Yes.  'They're  off'."  He  mingled  his  laugh- 
ter with  hers,  gently  seeking  to  disengage  his  arm. 
"And  perhaps,"  he  said,  "I,  clinging  to  the  weeds 
of  the  river's  bed,  shall  see  dimly  the  boats  and 
the  oars  pass  over  me,  and  shall  be  able  to  gurgle 
a  cheer  for  Judas." 

"Don't!"  she  shuddered,  with  a  woman's  no- 
tion that  a  jest  means  levity.  A  tumult  of 
thoughts  surged  in  her,  all  confused.  She  only 
knew  that  he  must  not  die — not  yet!  A  moment 
ago,  his  death  would  have  been  beautiful.  Not 
now !  Her  grip  of  his  arm  tightened.  Only  by 
breaking  her  wrist  could  he  have  freed  himself. 
A  moment  ago,  she  had  been  in  the  seventh 
heaven.  .  .    Men  were  supposed  to  have  died  for 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  117 

love  of  her.  It  had  never  been  proved.  There 
had  always  been  something — card-debts,  ill- 
health,  what  not — to  account  for  the  tragedy.  No 
man,  to  the  best  of  her  recollection,  had  ever 
hinted  that  he  was  going  to  die  for  her.  Never, 
assuredly,  had  she  seen  the  deed  done.  And  then 
came  he,  the  first  man  she  had  loved,  going  to 
die  here,  before  her  eyes,  because  she  no  longer 
loved  him.  But  she  knew  now  that  he  must  not 
die — not  yet ! 

All  around  her  was  the  hush  that  falls  on  Ox- 
ford when  the  signal  for  the  race  has  sounded. 
In  the  distance  could  be  heard  faintly  the  noise 
of  cheering — a  little  sing-song  sound,  drawing 
nearer. 

Ah,  how  could  she  have  thought  of  letting  him 
die  so  soon?  She  gazed  into  his  face — the  face 
she  might  never  have  seen  again.  Even  now,  but 
for  that  gun-shot,  the  waters  would  have  closed 
over  him,  and  his  soul,  maybe,  have  passed  away. 
She  had  saved  him,  thank  heaven!  She  had  him 
still  with  her. 

Gently,  vainly,  he  still  sought  to  unclasp  her 
fingers  from  his  arm. 

"Not  now!"  she  whispered.     "Not  yet!" 

And  the  noise  of  the  cheering,  and  of  the 
trumpeting  and  rattling,  as  it  drew  near,  was  an 
accompaniment  to  her  joy  in  having  saved  her 
lover.  She  would  keep  him  with  her — for  a 
while !      Let  all  be  done   in  order.     She  would 


ii8  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

savDur  the  full  sweetness  of  his  sacrifice.  To- 
morrow— to-morrow,  yes,  let  him  have  his  heart's 
desire  of  death.     Not  now!     Not  yet  I 

"To-morrow,"  she  whispered,  "to-morrow,  if 
you  will.     Not  yet!" 

The  first  boat  came  jerking  past  in  mid-stream; 
and  the  towing-path,  with  its  serried  throng  of 
runners,  was  like  a  live  thing,  keeping  pace.  As 
in  a  dream,  Zuleika  saw  it.  And  the  din  was  in 
her  ears.  No  heroine  of  Wagner  had  ever  a 
louder  accompaniment  than  had  ours  to  the  surg- 
ing soul  within  her  bosom. 

And  the  Duke,  tightly  held  by  her,  vibrated 
as  to  a  powerful  electric  current.  He  let  her 
cling  to  him,  and  her  magnetism  range  through 
him.  Ah,  it  was  good  not  to  have  died!  Fool, 
he  had  meant  to  drain  off-hand,  at  one  coarse 
draught,  the  delicate  wine  of  death.  He  would 
let  his  lips  caress  the  brim  of  the  august  goblet. 
He  would  dally  with  the  aroma  that  was  there. 

"So  be  it!"  he  cried  into  Zuleika's  ear — cried 
loudly,  for  it  seemed  as  though  all  the  Wagnerian 
orchestras  of  Europe,  with  the  Straussian  ones 
thrown  in,  were  here  to  clash  in  unison  the  full 
volume  of  right  music  for  the  glory  of  the 
reprieve. 

The  fact  was  that  the  Judas  boat  had  just 
bumped  Univ.,  exactly  opposite  the  Judas  barge. 
The  oarsmen  in  either  boat  sat  humped,  panting, 
some  of  them  rocking  and  writhing,  after  their 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  119 

wholesome  exercise.  But  there  was  not  one  of 
them  whose  eyes  were  not  upcast  at  Zulelka.  And 
the  vocalisation  and  instrumentation  of  the 
dancers  and  stampers  on  the  towing-path  had  by 
this  time  ceased  to  mean  aught  of  joy  in  the 
victors  or  of  comfort  for  the  vanquished,  and  had 
resolved  itself  into  a  wild  wordless  hymn  to  the 
glory  of  Miss  Dobson.  Behind  her  and  all 
around  her  on  the  roof  of  the  barge,  young  Ju- 
dasians  were  venting  in  like  manner  their  hearts 
through  their  lungs.  She  paid  no  heed.  It  was 
as  if  she  stood  alone  with  her  lover  on  some 
silent  pinnacle  of  the  world.  It  was  as  if  she 
were  a  little  girl  with  a  brand-new  and  very  ex- 
pensive doll  which  had  banished  all  the  little  other 
old  toys  from  her  mind. 

She  simply  could  not,  in  her  naive  rapture,  take 
her  eyes  off  her  companion.  To  the  dancers  and 
stampers  of  the  towing-path,  many  of  whom  were 
now  being  ferried  back  across  the  river,  and  to 
the  other  youths  on  the  roof  of  the  barge,  Zu- 
leika's  air  of  absorption  must  have  seemed  a  little 
strange.  For  already  the  news  that  the  Duke 
loved  Zuleika,  and  that  she  loved  him  not,  and 
would  stoop  to  no  man  who  loved  her,  had  spread 
like  wild-fire  among  the  undergraduates.  The 
two  youths  in  whom  the  Duke  had  deigned  to 
confide  had  not  held  their  peace.  And  the  effect 
that  Zuleika  had  made  as  she  came  down  to  the 
river  was  intensified  by  the  knowledge  that  not 


120  Zl^LF.IKA    DOBSON 

the  threat  paragon  himself  did  she  deem  worthy 
of  her.  The  mere  sight  of  lier  had  captured 
young  Oxford.  The  news  of  her  supernal 
haughtiness  had  riveted  the  chains. 

"Come  I"  said  the  Duke  at  length,  staring 
around  him  with  the  eyes  of  one  awakened  from 
a  dream.  "Come!  I  must  take  you  back  to 
Judas." 

"But  you  w'on't  leave  me  there?"  pleaded  Zu- 
leika.  "You  will  stay  to  dinner?  I  am  sure  my 
grandfather  would  be  delighted." 

"I  am  sure  he  would,"  said  the  Duke,  as  he 
piloted  her  down  the  steps  of  the  barge.  "But 
alas,  I  have  to  dine  at  the  Junta  to-night." 

"The  Junta?    What  is  that?" 

"A  little  dining-club.     It  meets  every  Tuesday." 

"But — you  don't  mean  you  are  going  to  refuse 
me  for  that?" 

"To  do  so  is  misery.  But  I  have  no  choice. 
I  have  asked  a  guest." 

"Then  ask  another:  ask  me!"  Zuleika's  no- 
tions of  Oxford  life  were  rather  hazy.  It  was 
with  difficulty  that  the  Duke  made  her  realise 
that  he  could  not — not  even  if,  as  she  suggested, 
she  dressed  herself  up  as  a  man — invite  her  to 
the  Junta.  She  then  fell  back  on  the  impossibility 
that  he  would  not  dine  with  her  to-night,  his  last 
night  in  this  world.  She  could  not  understand 
that  admirable  fidelity  to  social  engagements 
which  is  one  of  the  virtues  implanted  in  the  mem- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  121 

bers  of  our  aristocracy.  Bohemian  by  training 
and  by  career,  she  construed  the  Duke's  refusal 
as  either  a  cruel  slight  to  herself  or  an  act  of 
imbecility.  The  thought  of  being  parted  from  her 
for  one  moment  was  torture  to  him;  but  noblesse 
oblige,  and  it  was  quite  impossible  for  him  to 
break  an  engagement  merely  because  a  more 
charming  one  offered  itself:  he  would  as  soon 
have  cheated  at  cards. 

And  so,  as  they  went  side  by  side  up  the  avenue, 
in  the  mellow  light  of  the  westering  sun,  preceded 
in  their  course,  and  pursued,  and  surrounded,  by 
the  mob  of  hoarse  infatuate  youths,  Zuleika's  face 
was  as  that  of  a  little  girl  sulking.  Vainly  the 
Duke  reasoned  with  her.  She  could  not  see  the 
point  of  view. 

With  that  sudden  softening  that  comes  to  the 
face  of  an  angry  woman  who  has  hit  on  a  good 
argument,  she  turned  to  him  and  asked  "How  if 
I  hadn't  saved  your  life  just  now?  Much  you 
thought  about  your  guest  when  you  were  going 
to  dive  and  die !" 

"I  did  not  forget  him,"  answered  the  Duke, 
smiling  at  her  casuistry.  "Nor  had  I  any  scruple 
In  disappointing  him.  Death  cancels  all  engage- 
ments." 

And  Zuleika,  worsted,  resumed  her  sulking. 

But  presently,  as  they  neared  Judas,  she  re- 
lented. It  was  paltry  to  be  cross  with  him  who 
had  resolved  to  die  for  her  and  was  going  to  die 


122  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

so  on  tlic  morrow.  And  after  all,  she  would  sec 
him  at  the  concert  to-night.  They  would  sit  to- 
gether. And  all  to-morrow  they  would  be  together, 
till  the  time  came  for  parting.  Hers  was  a  nat- 
urally sunny  disposition.  And  the  evening  was 
such  a  lovely  one,  all  bathed  in  gold.  She  was 
ashamed  of  her  ill-humour. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said,  touching  his  arm. 
"Forgive  me  for  being  horrid."  And  forgiven 
she  promptly  was.  "And  promise  you  will  spend 
all  to-morrow  wMth  me."  And  of  course  he 
promised. 

As  they  stood  together  on  the  steps  of  the 
Warden's  front-door,  exalted  above  the  level  of 
the  flushed  and  swaying  crowd  that  filled  the 
whole  length  and  breadth  of  Judas  Street,  she 
implored  him  not  to  be  late  for  the  concert. 

"I  am  never  late,"  he  smiled. 

"Ah,  you're  so  beautifully  brought  up!" 

The  door  was  opened. 

"And —  oh,  you're  beautiful  besides!"  she 
whispered;  and  waved  her  hand  to  him  as  she 
vanished  into  the  hall. 


VIII 

A  FEW  minutes  before  half-past  seven,  the  Duke, 
arrayed  for  dinner,  passed  leisurely  up  the  High. 
The  arresting  feature  of  his  costume  was  a  mul- 
berry-coloured coat,  with  brass  buttons.  This,  to 
any  one  versed  in  Oxford  lore,  betokened  him  a 
member  of  the  Junta.  It  is  awful  to  think  that 
a  casual  stranger  might  have  mistaken  him  for  a 
footman.     It  does  not  do  to  think  of  such  things. 

The  tradesmen,  at  the  doors  of  their  shops, 
bowed  low  as  he  passed,  rubbing  their  hands  and 
smiling,  hoping  inwardly  that  they  took  no  liberty 
in  sharing  the  cool  rosy  air  of  the  evening  with 
his  Grace.  They  noted  that  he  wore  in  his  shirt- 
front  a  black  pearl  and  a  pink.  "Daring,  but 
becoming,"  they  opined. 

The  rooms  of  the  Junta  were  over  a  stationer's 
shop,  next  door  but  one  to  the  Mitre.  They  were 
small  rooms;  but  as  the  Junta  had  now,  besides 
the  Duke,  only  two  members,  and  as  no  member 
might  introduce  more  than  one  guest,  there  was 
ample  space. 

The  Duke  had  been  elected  in  his  second  term. 
At  that  time  there  were  four  members;  but  these 
were  all  leaving  Oxford  at  the  end  of  the  summer 
123 


124  ZrLFIKA    DOBSON 

term,  and  there  seemed  to  he  In  the  ranks  of  the 
Bullinsjidon  and  tlie  Lodcr  no  one  quite  eligible 
for  tile  Junta,  that  holy  of  holies.  J'hus  it  was 
that  the  Duke  inaugurated  in  solitude  his  second 
year  of  membership.  From  time  to  time,  he 
proposed  and  seconded  a  few  candidates,  after 
"sounding"  them  as  to  whether  they  were  willing 
to  join.  But  always,  when  election  evening — the 
last  Tuesday  of  term — drew  near,  he  began  to 
have  his  doubts  about  these  fellows.  This  one 
was  "rowdy";  that  one  was  over-dressed;  another 
did  not  ride  quite  straight  to  hounds;  in  the 
pedigree  of  another  a  bar-sinister  was  more  than 
suspected.  Election  evening  was  always  a  rather 
melancholy  time.  After  dinner,  when  the  two 
club  servants  had  placed  on  the  mahogany  the 
time-worn  Candidates'  Book  and  the  ballot-box, 
and  had  noiselessly  withdrawn,  the  Duke,  clearing 
his  throat,  read  aloud  to  himself  "Mr.  So-and-So, 
of  Such-and-Such  College,  proposed  by  the  Duke 
of  Dorset,  seconded  by  the  Duke  of  Dorset,"  and, 
in  every  case,  when  he  drew  out  the  drawer  of  the 
ballot-box,  found  it  was  a  black-ball  that  he  had 
dropped  into  the  urn.  Thus  it  was  that  at  the 
end  of  the  summer  term  the  annual  photographic 
"group"  taken  by  Messrs.  Hills  and  Saunders 
was  a  presentment  of  the  Duke  alone. 

In  the  course  of  his  third  year  he  had  become 
less  exclusive.  Not  because  there  seemed  to  be 
any  one  really  worthy  of  the  Junta;  but  because 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  125 

the  Junta,  having  thriven  since  the  eighteenth 
century,  must  not  die.  Suppose — one  never  knew 
— he  were  struck  by  lightning,  the  Junta  would 
be  no  more.  So,  not  without  reluctance,  but 
unanimously,  he  had  elected  The  MacQuern,  of 
Balliol,  and  Sir  John  Marraby,  of  Brasenose. 

To-night,  as  he,  a  doomed  man,  went  up  into 
the  familiar  rooms,  he  was  wholly  glad  that  he 
had  thus  relented.  As  yet,  he  was  spared  the 
tragic  knowledge  that  it  would  make  no  dif- 
ference.* 

The  MacQuern  and  two  other  young  men  were 
already  there. 

"Mr.  President,"  said  The  MacQuern,  'T  pre- 
sent Mr.  Trent-Garby,  of  Christ  Church." 

"The  Junta  is  honoured,"  said  the  Duke, 
bowing. 

Such  was  the  ritual  of  the  club. 

The  other  young  man,  because  his  host,  Sir 
John  Marraby,  was  not  yet  on  the  scene,  had  no 
locus  standi,  and,  though  a  friend  of  The  Mac- 
Quern, and  well  known  to  the  Duke,  had  to  be 
ignored. 

A  moment  later.  Sir  John  arrived.  "Mr.  Pres- 
ident," he  said,  "I  present  Lord  Sayes,  of  Mag- 
dalen." 

"The  Junta  is  honoured,"  said  the  Duke, 
bowing. 

*  The  Junta  has  been  reconstituted.  But  the  apostolic  line 
was  broken,  the  thread  was  snapped;   the  old  magic  is  fled. 


126  Zl'IJ-IKA    DOBSON 

Both  hosts  ami  hoth  guests,  having  been  promi- 
nent in  the  throng  that  vociferated  around  Zuleika 
an  hour  earhcr,  \vere  slightly  abashed  in  the 
Duke's  presence.  He,  however,  had  not  noticed 
any  one  In  particular,  and,  even  if  he  had,  that 
fine  tradition  of  the  club — "A  member  of  the 
Junta  can  do  no  wrong;  a  guest  of  the  Junta  can- 
not err" — would  have  prevented  him  from  show- 
ing his  displeasure. 

A  Herculean  figure  filled  the  doorway. 

"The  Junta  is  honoured,"  said  the  Duke, 
bowing  to  his  guest. 

"Duke,"  said  the  newcomer  quietly,  "the  hon- 
our is  as  much  mine  as  that  of  the  Interesting  and 
ancient  institution  which  I  am  this  night  privileged 
to  inspect." 

Turning  to  Sir  John  and  The  MacQuern,  the 
Duke  said  "I  present  Mr.  Abimelech  V.  Oover, 
of  Trinity." 

"The  Junta,"  they  replied,  "Is  honoured." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  Rhodes  Scholar,  "your 
good  courtesy  is  just  such  as  I  w^ould  have  antici- 
pated from  members  of  the  ancient  Junta.  Like 
most  of  my  countrymen,  I  am  a  man  of  few 
words.  We  are  habituated  out  there  to  act  rather 
than  talk.  Judged  from  the  view-point  of  your 
beautiful  old  civilisation,  I  am  aware  my  curtness 
must  seem  crude.  But,  gentlemen,  believe  me, 
right  here " 

"Dinner  is  served,  your  Grace." 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  127 

Thus  interrupted,  Mr.  Oover,  with  the  re- 
sourcefulness of  a  practised  orator,  brought  his 
thanks  to  a  quick  but  not  abrupt  conckision.  The 
Httle  company  passed  into  the  front  room. 

Through  the  window,  from  the  High,  fading 
dayhght  mingled  with  the  candle-light.  The  mul- 
berry coats  of  the  hosts,  interspersed  by  the  black 
ones  of  the  guests,  made  a  fine  pattern  around 
the  oval  table  a-gleam  with  the  many  curious 
pieces  of  gold  and  silver  plate  that  had  accrued 
to  the  Junta  in  course  of  years. 

The  President  showed  much  deference  to  his 
guest.  He  seemed  to  listen  with  close  attention 
to  the  humorous  anecdote  with  which,  in  the 
American  fashion,  Mr.  Oover  inaugurated  dinner. 

To  all  Rhodes  Scholars,  indeed,  his  courtesy 
was  invariable.  He  went  out  of  his  way  to  culti- 
vate them.  And  this  he  did  more  as  a  favour  to 
Lord  Milner  than  of  his  own  caprice.  He  found 
these  Scholars,  good  fellows  though  they  were, 
rather  oppressive.  They  had  not — how  could  they 
have? — the  undergraduate's  virtue  of  taking  Ox- 
ford as  a  matter  of  course.  The  Germans  loved 
it  too  little,  the  Colonials  too  much.  The  Ameri- 
cans were,  to  a  sensitive  observer,  the  most 
troublesome — as  being  the  most  troubled — of  the 
whole  lot.  The  Duke  was  not  one  of  those  Eng- 
lishmen who  fling,  or  care  to  hear  flung,  cheap 
sneers  at  America.  Whenever  any  one  in  his 
presence  said  that  America  was  not  large  in  area, 


1 28  ZULF.IKA    DOBSON 

he  would  firmly  maintain  that  it  was.  He  held, 
too,  in  his  enlightened  way,  that  Americans  have  a 
perfect  right  to  exist.  But  he  did  often  find  him- 
self wishing  Mr.  Rhodes  had  not  enabled  them 
to  exercise  that  right  in  Oxford.  They  were  so 
awfully  afraid  of  having  their  strenuous  native 
characters  undermined  by  their  delight  in  the 
place.  They  held  that  the  future  was  theirs,  a 
glorious  asset,  far  more  glorious  than  the  past. 
But  a  theory,  as  the  Duke  saw,  is  one  thing,  an 
emotion  another.  It  is  so  much  easier  to  covet 
what  one  hasn't  than  to  revel  in  what  one  has. 
Also,  it  is  so  much  easier  to  be  enthusiastic  about 
what  exists  than  about  what  doesn't.  The  future 
doesn't  exist.  The  past  does.  For,  whereas  all 
men  can  learn,  the  gift  of  prophecy  has  died  out. 
A  man  cannot  work  up  in  his  breast  any  real  ex- 
citement about  what  possibly  won't  happen.  He 
cannot  very  well  help  being  sentimentally  inter-, 
ested  in  what  he  knows  has  happened.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  owes  a  duty  to  his  country.  And, 
if  his  country  be  America,  he  ought  to  try  to  feel 
a  vivid  respect  for  the  future,  and  a  cold  contempt 
for  the  past.  Also,  if  he  be  selected  by  his 
country  as  a  specimen  of  the  best  moral,  physical, 
and  intellectual  type  that  she  can  produce  for  the 
astounding  of  the  effete  foreigner,  and  incidentally 
for  the  purpose  of  raising  that  foreigner's  tone, 
he  must — mustn't  he? — do  his  best  to  astound, 
to  exalt.    But  then  comes  in  this  difficulty.    Young 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  129 

men  don't  like  to  astound  and  exalt  their  fellows. 
And  Americans,  individually,  are  of  all  people 
the  most  anxious  to  please.  That  they  talk  over- 
much is  often  taken  as  a  sign  of  self-satisfaction. 
It  is  merely  a  mannerism.  Rhetoric  is  a  thing  in- 
bred in  them.  They  are  quite  unconscious  of  it. 
It  is  as  natural  to  them  as  breathing.  And,  while 
they  talk  on,  they  really  do  believe  that  they  are 
a  quick,  businesslike  people,  by  whom  things  are 
"put  through"  with  an  almost  brutal  abruptness. 
This  notion  of  theirs  is  rather  confusing  to  the 
patient  English  auditor. 

Altogether,  the  American  Rhodes  Scholars, 
with  their  splendid  native  gift  of  oratory,  and 
their  modest  desire  to  please,  and  their  not  less 
evident  feeling  that  they  ought  merely  to  edify, 
and  their  constant  delight  in  all  that  of  Oxford 
their  English  brethren  don't  notice,  and  their  con- 
stant fear  that  they  are  being  corrupted,  are  a 
noble,  rather  than  a  comfortable,  element  in  the 
social  life  of  the  University.  So,  at  least,  they 
seemed  to  the  Duke. 

And  to-night,  but  that  he  had  invited  Oover 
to  dine  with  him,  he  could  have  been  dining  with 
Zuleika.  And  this  was  his  last  dinner  on  earth. 
Such  thoughts  made  him  the  less  able  to  take 
pleasure  in  his  guest.  Perfect,  however,  the 
amenity  of  his  manner. 

This  was  the  more  commendable  because 
Oover's  "aura"  was  even  more  disturbing  than 


I30  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

that  of  the  average  Rhodes  Scholar.  To-night, 
besides  the  usual  conflicts  in  this  young  man's 
bosom,  raged  a  special  one  between  his  desire 
to  behave  well  and  his  jealousy  of  the  man  who 
had  to-day  been  Miss  Dobson's  escort.  In  theory 
he  denied  the  Duke's  right  to  that  honour.  In 
sentiment  he  admitted  it.  Another  conflict,  you 
see.  And  another.  He  longed  to  orate  about  the 
woman  who  had  his  heart;  yet  she  was  the  one 
topic  that  must  be  shirked. 

The  MacQuern  and  Mr.  Trent-Garby,  Sir  John 
Marraby  and  Lord  Sayes,  they  too — though  they 
were  no  orators — would  fain  have  unpacked  their 
hearts  in  words  about  Zuleika.  They  spoke  of 
this  and  that,  automatically,  none  listening  to  an- 
other— each  man  listening,  wide-eyed,  to  his  own 
heart's  solo  on  the  Zuleika  theme,  and  drinking 
rather  more  champagne  than  was  good  for  him. 
Maybe,  these  youths  sowed  in  themselves,  on  this 
night,  the  seeds  of  lifelong  intemperance.  We 
cannot  tell.  They  did  not  live  long  enough  for 
us  to  know. 

While  the  six  dined,  a  seventh,  invisible  to 
them,  leaned  moodily  against  the  mantel-piece, 
watching  them.  He  was  not  of  their  time.  His 
long  brown  hair  was  knotted  in  a  black  riband 
behind.  He  wore  a  pale  brocaded  coat  and  lace 
ruflles,  silken  stockings,  a  sword.  Privy  to  their 
doom,  he  watched  them.  He  was  loth  that  his 
Junta  must  die.    Yes,  his.    Could  the  diners  have 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  131 

seen  him,  they  would  have  known  him  by  his 
resemblance  to  the  mezzotint  portrait  that  hung 
on  the  wall  above  him.  They  would  have  risen  to 
their  feet  in  presence  of  Humphrey  Greddon, 
founder  and  first  president  of  the  club. 

His  face  was  not  so  oval,  nor  were  his  eyes  so 
big,  nor  his  lips  so  full,  nor  his  hands  so  delicate, 
as  they  appeared  in  the  mezzotint.  Yet  (bating 
the  conventions  of  eighteenth-century  portraiture) 
the  likeness  was  a  good  one.  Humphrey  Greddon 
was  not  less  well-knit  and  graceful  than  the 
painter  had  made  him,  and,  hard  though  the  lines 
of  the  face  were,  there  was  about  him  a  certain 
air  of  high  romance  that  could  not  be  explained 
away  by  the  fact  that  he  was  of  a  period  not  our 
own.  You  could  understand  the  great  love  that 
Nellie  O'Mora  had  borne  him. 

Under  the  mezzotint  hung  Hoppner's  minia- 
ture of  that  lovely  and  Ill-starred  girl,  with  her 
soft  dark  eyes,  and  her  curls  all  astray  from  be- 
neath her  little  blue  turban.  And  the  Duke  was 
telling  Mr.  Oover  her  story — how  she  had  left 
her  home  for  Humphrey  Greddon  when  she  was 
but  sixteen,  and  he  an  undergraduate  at  Christ 
Church;  and  had  lived  for  him  in  a  cottage  at 
Littlemore,  whither  he  would  ride,  most  days,  to 
be  with  her;  and  how  he  tired  of  her,  broke  his 
oath  that  he  would  marry  her,  thereby  broke  her 
heart;  and  how  she  drowned  herself  in  a  mill- 
pond;  and  how  Greddon  was  killed  in  Venice,  two 


132  ZL'LLIKA    DOBSON 

years  later,  duelling  on  the  Riva  Schiavoni  with 
a  Senator  whose  daughter  he  had  seduced. 

And  he,  Greddon,  was  not  listening  very  atten- 
tively to  the  tale.  He  had  heard  it  told  so  often 
in  this  room,  and  he  did  not  understand  the 
sentiments  of  the  modern  world.  Nellie  had  been 
a  monstrous  pretty  creature.  He  had  adored  her, 
and  had  done  with  her.  It  was  right  that  she 
should  always  be  toasted  after  dinner  by  the 
Junta,  as  in  the  days  when  first  he  loved  her — 
"Here's  to  Nellie  O'Mora,  the  fairest  witch  that 
ever  was  or  will  be!"  He  would  have  resented 
the  omission  of  that  toast.  But  he  was  sick  of 
the  pitying,  melting  looks  that  were  always  cast 
towards  her  miniature.  Nellie  had  been  beauti- 
ful, but,  by  God!  she  was  always  a  dunce  and  a 
simpleton.  How  could  he  have  spent  his  life  with 
her?  She  was  a  fool,  by  God!  not  to  marry  that 
fool  Trailby,  of  Merton,  whom  he  took  to  see  her. 

Mr.  Dover's  moral  tone,  and  his  sense  of  chiv- 
alry, were  of  the  American  kind:  far  higher  than 
ours,  even,  and  far  better  expressed.  Whereas 
the  English  guests  of  the  Junta,  when  they  heard 
the  tale  of  Nellie  O'Mora,  would  merely  murmur 
"Poor  girl!"  or  "What  a  shame!"  Mr.  Cover 
said  in  a  tone  of  quiet  authority  that  compelled 
Greddon's  ear  "Duke,  I  hope  I  am  not  incog- 
nisant  of  the  laws  that  govern  the  relations  of 
guest  and  host.  But,  Duke,  I  aver  deliberately 
tha;  the  founder  of  this  fine  old  club,  at  which 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  133 

you  are  so  splendidly  entertaining  me  to-night, 
was  an  unmitigated  scoundrel.  I  say  he  was  not 
a  white  man." 

At  the  word  "scoundrel,"  Humphrey  Greddon 
had  sprung  forward,  drawing  his  sword,  and 
loudly,  in  a  voice  audible  to  himself  alone,  chal- 
lenged the  American  to  make  good  his  words. 
Then,  as  this  gentleman  took  no  notice,  with  one 
clean  straight  thrust  Greddon  ran  him  through 
the  heart,  shouting  "Die,  you  damned  psalm- 
singer  and  traducer!  And  so  die  all  rebels 
against  King  George  !"*  Withdrawing  the  blade, 
he  wiped  it  daintily  on  his  cambric  handkerchief. 
There  was  no  blood.  Mr.  Oover,  with  unpunc- 
tured  shirt-front,  was  repeating  "I  say  he  was  not 
a  white  man."  And  Greddon  remembered  him- 
self— remembered  he  was  only  a  ghost,  impalpa- 
ble, impotent,  of  no  account.  "But  I  shall  meet 
you  in  Hell  to-morrow,"  he  hissed  In  Oover's  face. 
And  there  he  was  wrong.  It  is  quite  certain  that 
Oover  went  to  Heaven. 

Unable  to  avenge  himself,  Gredden  had  looked 
to  the  Duke  to  act  for  him.  When  he  saw  that 
this  young  man  did  but  smile  at  Oover  and  make 
a  vague  deprecatory  gesture,  he  again,  In  his 
wrath,  forgot  his  disabilities.  Drawing  himself 
to  his  full  height,  he  took  with  great  deliberation 
a  pinch  of  snuff,  and,  bowing  low  to  the  Duke, 

*  As  Edward  VII.  was  at  this  time  on  the  throne,  it  must 
have  been  to  George  III,  that  Mr.  Greddon  was  referring. 


134  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

said  ''I  am  vastly  oblecgcd  to  your  Grace  for  the 
fine  high  Courage  you  have  exhibited  in  the  behalf 
of  your  most  Admiring,  most  Humble  Servant." 
Then,  having  brushed  away  a  speck  of  snuff  from 
his  jabot,  he  turned  on  his  heel;  and  only  in  the 
doorway,  where  one  of  the  club  servants,  carrying 
a  decanter  in  each  hand,  walked  straight  through 
him,  did  he  realise  that  he  had  not  spoilt  the 
Duke's  evening.  With  a  volley  of  the  most  ap- 
palling eighteenth-century  oaths,  he  passed  back 
into  the  nether  world. 

To  the  Duke,  Nellie  O'Mora  had  never  been 
a  very  vital  figure.  He  had  often  repeated  the 
legend  of  her.  But,  having  never  known  what 
love  was,  he  could  not  imagine  her  rapture  or  her 
anguish.  Himself  the  quarry  of  all  Mayfair's 
wise  virgins,  he  had  always — so  far  as  he  thought 
of  the  matter  at  all — suspected  that  Nellie's  death 
was  due  to  thwarted  ambition.  But  to-night, 
while  he  told  Oover  about  her,  he  could  see  into 
her  soul.  Nor  did  he  pity  her.  She  had  loved. 
She  had  known  the  one  thing  worth  living  for — 
and  dying  for.  She,  as  she  went  down  to  the  mill- 
pond,  had  felt  just  that  ecstasy  of  self-sacrifice 
which  he  himself  had  felt  to-day  and  would  feel 
to-morrow.  And  for  a  while,  too — for  a  full 
year — she  had  known  the  joy  of  being  loved,  had 
been  for  Greddon  "the  fairest  witch  that  ever 
was  or  will  be."  He  could  not  agree  with  Dover's 
long  disquisition  on  her  sufferings.    And,  glancing 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  135 

at  her  well-remembered  miniature,  he  wondered 
just  what  it  was  In  her  that  had  captivated  Gred- 
don.  He  was  In  that  blest  state  when  a  man  can- 
not believe  the  earth  has  been  trodden  by  any 
really  beautiful  or  desirable  lady  save  the  lady 
of  his  own  heart. 

The  moment  had  come  for  the  removal  of  the 
table-cloth.  The  mahogany  of  the  Junta  was  laid 
bare — a  clear  dark  lake,  anon  to  reflect  In  its  still 
and  ruddy  depths  the  candelabras  and  the  fruit- 
cradles,  the  slender  glasses  and  the  stout  old  de- 
canters, the  forfeit-box  and  the  snuff-box,  and 
other  paraphernalia  of  the  dignity  of  dessert. 
Lucidly  and  unwaveringly  inverted  In  the  depths 
these  good  things  stood;  and,  so  soon  as  the  wine 
had  made  Its  circuit,  the  Duke  rose  and  with  up- 
lifted glass  proposed  the  first  of  the  two  toasts 
traditional  to  the  Junta.  "Gentlemen,  I  give  you 
Church  and  State." 

The  toast  having  been  honoured  by  all — and 
by  none  with  a  richer  reverence  than  by  Oover, 
despite  his  passionate  mental  reservation  In  favour 
of  PIttsburg-AnabaptIsm  and  the  Republican  Ideal 
— the  snuff-box  was  handed  round,  and  fruit  was 
eaten. 

Presently,  when  the  wine  had  gone  round  again, 
the  Duke  rose  and  with  uplifted  glass  said  "Gen- 
tlemen, I  give  you "  and  there  halted.    Silent, 

frowning,  flushed,  he  stood  for  a  few  moments, 
and   then,   with   a   deliberate   gesture,    tilted   his 


136  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

glass  and  let  fall  the  wine  to  the  carpet.  "No," 
he  said,  looking  round  the  table,  "I  cannot  give 
you  Nellie  O'Alora." 

"Why  not?"  gasped  Sir  John  Marraby. 

"You  have  a  right  to  ask  that,"  said  the  Duke, 
still  standing.  "I  can  only  say  that  my  conscience 
is  stronger  than  my  sense  of  what  is  due  to  the 
customs  of  the  club.  Nellie  O'Mora,"  he  said, 
passing  his  hand  over  his  brow,  "may  have  been 
in  her  day  the  fairest  witch  that  ever  was — so 
fair  that  our  founder  had  good  reason  to  suppose 
her  the  fairest  witch  that  ever  would  be.  But  his 
prediction  was  a  false  one.  So  at  least  It  seems  to 
me.  Of  course  I  cannot  both  hold  this  view  and 
remain  President  of  this  club.  MacQuern — Mar- 
raby— which  of  you  is  Vice-President?" 

"He  is,"  said  Marraby. 

"Then,  MacQuern,  you  are  hereby  President, 
vice  myself  resigned.  Take  the  chair  and  propose 
the  toast." 

"I  would  rather  not,"  said  The  MacQuern  after 
a  pause. 

"Then,  Marraby,  you  must." 

"Not  I!"  said  Marraby. 

"Why  is  this?"  asked  the  Duke,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other. 

The  MacQuern,  with  Scotch  caution,  was  silent. 
But  the  impulsive  Marraby — Madcap  Marraby, 
as  they  called  him  in  B.N.C. — said  "It's  because 
I  won't  lie !"  and,  leaping  up,  raised  his  glass  aloft 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  137 

and  cried  "I  give  you  Zuleika  Dobson,  the  fairest 
witch  that  ever  was  or  will  be !" 

Mr.  Oover,  Lord  Sayes,  Mr.  Trent-Garby, 
sprang  to  their  feet;  The  MacQuern  rose  to  his. 
"Zuleika  Dobson!"  they  cried,  and  drained  their 
glasses. 

Then,  when  they  had  resumed  their  seats,  came 
an  awkward  pause.  The  Duke,  still  erect  beside 
the  chair  he  had  vacated,  looked  very  grave  and 
pale.  Marraby  had  taken  an  outrageous  liberty. 
But  "a  member  of  the  Junta  can  do  no  wrong," 
and  the  liberty  could  not  be  resented.  The  Duke 
felt  that  the  blame  was  on  himself,  who  had 
elected  Marraby  to  the  club. 

Mr.  Oover,  too,  looked  grave.  All  the  an- 
tiquarian in  him  deplored  the  sudden  rupture  of 
a  fine  old  Oxford  tradition.  All  the  chivalrous 
American  in  him  resented  the  slight  on  that  fair 
victim  of  the  feudal  system.  Miss  O'Mora.  And, 
at  the  same  time,  all  the  Abimelech  V.  in  him  re- 
joiced at  having  honoured  by  word  and  act  the 
one  woman  in  the  world. 

Gazing  around  at  the  flushed  faces  and  heaving 
shirt-fronts  of  the  diners,  the  Duke  forgot  Mar- 
raby's  misdemeanour.  What  mattered  far  more 
to  him  was  that  here  were  five  young  men  deeply 
under  the  spell  of  Zuleika.  They  must  be  saved, 
if  possible.  He  knew  how  strong  his  influence 
was  in  the  University.  He  knew  also  how  strong 
was  Zuleika's.     He  had  not  much  hope  of  the 


138  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

issue.  But  his  lu'w-born  sense  of  duty  to  his 
fellows  spurred  him  on.  "Is  there,"  he  asked  with 
a  bitter  smile,  "any  one  of  you  who  doesn't  with 
his  whole  heart  love  Miss  Dobson?" 

Nobody  held  up  a  hand. 

"As  I  feared,"  said  the  Duke,  knowing  not  that 
if  a  hand  had  been  held  up  he  would  have  taken 
it  as  a  personal  insult.  No  man  really  in  love  can 
forgive  another  for  not  sharing  his  ardour.  His 
jealousy  for  himself  when  his  beloved  prefers  an- 
other man  is  hardly  a  stronger  passion  than  his 
jealousy  for  her  when  she  is  not  preferred  to  all 
other  women. 

"You  know^  her  only  by  sight — by  repute?" 
asked  the  Duke.  They  signified  that  this  was  so. 
"I  wish  you  would  introduce  me  to  her,"  said 
Marraby. 

"You  are  all  coming  to  the  Judas  concert  to- 
night?" the  Duke  asked,  ignoring  Marraby.  "You 
have  all  secured  tickets?"  They  nodded.  "To 
hear  me  play,  or  to  see  Miss  Dobson?"  There 
was  a  murmur  of  "Both — both."  "And  you  w^ould 
all  of  you,  like  Marraby,  wish  to  be  presented  to 
this  lady?"  Their  eyes  dilated.  "That  way  hap- 
piness lies,  think  you?" 

"Oh,  happiness  be  hanged!"  said  Marraby. 

To  the  Duke  this  seemed  a  profoundly  sane 
remark — an  epitome  of  his  own  sentiments.  But 
what  was  right  for  himself  was  not  right  for  all. 
He  believed  in  convention  as  the  best  way  for 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  139 

average  mankind.  And  so,  slowly,  calmly,  he  told 
to  his  fellow-diners  just  what  he  had  told  a  few 
hours  earlier  to  those  two  young  men  in  Salt 
Cellar.  Not  knowing  that  his  words  had  already 
been  spread  throughout  Oxford,  he  was  rather 
surprised  that  they  seemed  to  make  no  sensation. 
Quite  flat,  too,  fell  his  appeal  that  the  syren  be 
shunned  by  all. 

Mr.  Oover,  during  his  year  of  residence,  had 
been  sorely  tried  by  the  quaint  old  English  cus- 
tom of  not  making  public  speeches  after  private 
dinners.  It  was  with  a  deep  sigh  of  satisfaction 
that  he  now  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Duke,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  which  yet  pene- 
trated to  every  corner  of  the  room,  "I  guess  I  am 
voicing  these  gentlemen  when  I  say  that  your 
words  show  up  your  good  heart,  all  the  time. 
Your  mentality,  too,  is  bully,  as  we  all  predicate. 
One  may  say  without  exaggeration  that  your 
scholarly  and  social  attainments  are  a  by-word 
throughout  the  solar  system,  and  be-yond.  We 
rightly  venerate  you  as  our  boss.  Sir,  we  worship 
the  ground  you  walk  on.  But  we  owe  a  duty  to 
our  own  free  and  independent  manhood.  Sir,  we 
worship  the  ground  Miss  Z.  Dobson  treads  on. 
We  have  pegged  out  a  claim  right  there.  And 
from  that  location  we  aren't  to  be  budged — not 
for  bob-nuts.  We  asseverate  we  squat — where — 
we — squat,  come — what — will.  You  say  we  have 
no  chance  to  win  Miss  Z.  Dobson.     That — we — 


140  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

know.  \Vc  aren't  wortliy.  We  lie  prone.  Let 
her  walk  over  us.  You  say  her  heart  is  cold.  We 
don't  pro-fess  we  can  take  the  chill  off.  But,  Sir, 
we  can't  be  diverted  out  of  loving  her — not  even 
by  you.  Sir.  No,  Sir!  We  love  her,  and — shall, 
and — will,  Sir,  with — our — latest  breath." 

This  peroration  evoked  loud  applause.  "I  love 
her,  and  shall,  and  will,"  shouted  each  man.  And 
again  they  honoured  in  wine  her  image.  Sir  John 
Marraby  uttered  a  cry  familiar  in  the  hunting- 
field.  The  MacQuern  contributed  a  few  bars  of  a 
sentimental  ballad  in  the  dialect  of  his  country. 
"Hurrah,  hurrah!"  shouted  Mr.  Trent-Garby. 
Lord  Sayes  hummed  the  latest  waltz,  waving  his 
arms  to  Its  rhythm,  while  the  wine  he  had  just 
spilt  on  his  shirt-front  trickled  unheeded  to  his 
waistcoat.     Mr.  Oover  gave  the  Yale  cheer. 

The  genial  din  was  wafted  down  through  the 
open  window  to  the  passers-by.  The  wine-mer- 
chant across  the  way  heard  it,  and  smiled  pen- 
sively.    "Youth,  youth!"  he  murmured. 

The  genial  din  grew  louder. 

At  any  other  time,  the  Duke  would  have  been 
jarred  by  the  disgrace  to  the  Junta.  But  now,  as 
he  stood  with  bent  head,  covering  his  face  with 
his  hands,  he  thought  only  of  the  need  to  rid  these 
young  men,  here  and  now,  of  the  influence  that 
had  befallen  them.  To-morrow  his  tragic  ex- 
ample might  be  too  late,  the  mischief  have  sunk 
too  deep,  the  agony  be  life-long.    His  good  breed- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  141 

ing  forbade  him  to  cast  over  a  dinner-table  the 
shadow  of  his  death.  His  conscience  insisted  that 
he  must.  He  uncovered  his  face,  and  held  up  one 
hand  for  silence. 

"We  are  all  of  us,"  he  said,  "old  enough  to 
remember  vividly  the  demonstrations  made  in  the 
streets  of  London  when  war  was  declared  between 
us  and  the  Transvaal  Republic.  You,  Mr.  Oover, 
doubtless  heard  in  America  the  echoes  of  those 
ebullitions.  The  general  idea  was  that  the  war 
was  going  to  be  a  very  brief  and  simple  affair — 
what  was  called  'a  walk-over.'  To  me,  though  I 
was  only  a  small  boy,  it  seemed  that  all  this  de- 
lirious pride  in  the  prospect  of  crushing  a  trump- 
ery foe  argued  a  defect  in  our  sense  of  proportion. 
Still,  I  was  able  to  understand  the  demonstrators' 
point  of  view.  To  'the  giddy  vulgar'  any  sort  of 
victory  is  pleasant.  But  defeat?  If,  when  that 
war  was  declared,  every  one  had  been  sure  that 
not  only  should  we  fail  to  conquer  the  Transvaal, 
but  that  it  would  conquer  us — that  not  only  would 
it  make  good  its  freedom  and  independence,  but 
that  we  should  forfeit  ours — how  would  the  cits 
have  felt  then?  Would  they  not  have  pulled  long 
faces,  spoken  in  whispers,  wept?  You  must  for- 
give me  for  saying  that  the  noise  you  have  just 
made  around  this  table  was  very  like  to  the  noise 
made  on  the  verge  of  the  Boer  War.  And  your 
procedure  seems  to  me  as  unaccountable  as  would 
have  seemed  the  antics  of  those  mobs  if  England 


142  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

had  been  plainly  doomed  to  disaster  and  to  vas- 
salage. My  guest  here  to-night,  in  the  course  of 
his  very  eloquent  and  racy  speech,  spoke  of  the 
need  that  he  and  you  should  preserve  your  'free 
and  independent  manhood.'  That  seemed  to  me 
an  irreproachable  ideal.  But  I  confess  I  was 
somewhat  taken  aback  by  my  friend's  scheme  for 
realising  it.  He  declared  his  intention  of  lying 
prone  and  letting  Miss  Dobson  'walk  over'  him; 
and  he  advised  you  to  follow  his  example;  and 
to  this  counsel  you  gave  evident  approval.  Gen- 
tlemen, suppose  that  on  the  verge  of  the  aforesaid 
war,  some  orator  had  said  to  the  British  people 
'It  is  going  to  be  a  walk-over  for  our  enemy  in 
the  field.  Mr.  Kruger  holds  us  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand.  In  subjection  to  him  we  shall  find 
our  long-lost  freedom  and  independence' — what 
would  have  been  Britannia's  answer?  What,  on 
reflection,  is  yours  to  Mr.  Oover?  What  are 
Mr.  Dover's  own  second  thoughts?"  The  Duke 
paused,  with  a  smile  to  his  guest. 

"Go  right  ahead,  Duke,"  said  Mr.  Oover.  "I'll 
re-ply  when  my  turn  comes." 

"And  not  utterly  demolish  me,  I  hope,"  said 
the  Duke.  His  was  the  Oxford  manner.  "Gen- 
tlemen," he  continued,  "is  it  possible  that  Britan- 
nia would  have  thrown  her  helmet  in  the  air, 
shrieking  'Slavery  for  ever'?  You,  gentlemen, 
seem  to  think  slavery  a  pleasant  and  an  honour- 
able state.    You  have  less  experience  of  it  than  I. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  143 

I  have  been  enslaved  to  Miss  Dobson  since  yes- 
terday evening;  you,  only  since  this  afternoon;  I, 
at  close  quarters;  you,  at  a  respectful  distance. 
Your  fetters  have  not  galled  you  yet.  My  wrists, 
my  ankles,  are  excoriated.  The  iron  has  entered 
into  my  soul.  I  droop.  I  stumble.  Blood  flows 
from  me.  I  quiver  and  curse.  I  writhe.  The 
sun  mocks  me.  The  moon  titters  in  my  face.  I 
can  stand  it  no  longer.  I  will  no  more  of  it.  To- 
morrow I  die." 

The  flushed  faces  of  the  diners  grew  gradually 
pale.  Their  eyes  lost  lustre.  Their  tongues  clove 
to  the  roofs  of  their  mouths. 

At  length,  almost  inaudibly.  The  MacQuern 
asked  "Do  you  mean  you  are  going  to  commit 
suicide?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Duke,  "if  you  choose  to  put 
It  In  that  way.  Yes.  And  it  Is  only  by  a  chance 
that  I  did  not  commit  suicide  this  afternoon." 

"You — don't — say,"  gasped  Mr.  Oover. 

"I  do  indeed,"  said  the  Duke.  "And  I  ask  you 
all  to  weigh  well  my  message." 

"But — but  does  Miss  Dobson  know?"  asked 
Sir  John. 

"Oh  yes,"  was  the  reply.  "Indeed,  it  was  she 
who  persuaded  me  not  to  die  till  to-morrow." 

"But — but,"  faltered  Lord  Sayes,  "I  saw  her 
saying  good-bye  to  you  in  Judas  Street.  And — 
and  she  looked  quite — as  If  nothing  had  hap- 
pened." 


144  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

"Nothing  had  happened,"  said  the  Duke.  "And 
she  was  very  much  pleased  to  have  me  still  with 
her.  But  she  isn't  so  cruel  as  to  hinder  me  from 
dying  for  her  to-morrow.  I  don't  think  she  ex- 
actly fixed  the  hour.  It  shall  be  just  after  the 
li!ights  have  been  rowed.  An  earlier  death  would 
mark  in  me  a  lack  of  courtesy  to  that  contest.  ,  . 
It  seems  strange  to  you  that  I  should  do  this 
thing?  Take  warning  by  me.  Muster  all  your 
will-power,  and  forget  Miss  Dobson.  Tear  up 
your  tickets  for  the  concert.  Stay  here  and  play 
cards.  Play  high.  Or  rather,  go  back  to  your 
various  Colleges,  and  speed  the  news  I  have  told 
you.  Put  all  Oxford  on  its  guard  against  this 
woman  who  can  love  no  lover.  Let  all  Oxford 
know  that  I,  Dorset,  who  had  so  much  reason 
to  love  life — I,  the  nonpareil — am  going  to  die 
for  the  love  I  bear  this  woman.  And  let  no  man 
think  I  go  unwilling.  I  am  no  lamb  led  to  the 
slaughter.  I  am  priest  as  well  as  victim.  I  offer 
myself  up  with  a  pious  joy.  But  enough  of  this 
cold  Hebraism!  It  is  ill-attuned  to  my  soul's 
mood.  Self-sacrifice — bah!  Regard  me  as  a 
voluptuary.  I  am  that.  All  my  baffled  ardour 
speeds  me  to  the  bosom  of  Death.  She  is  gentle 
and  wanton.  She  knows  I  could  never  have  loved 
her  for  her  own  sake.  She  has  no  illusions  about 
me.  She  knows  well  I  come  to  her  because  not 
otherwise  may  I  quench  my  passion." 

There  was  a  long  silence.    The  Duke,  looking 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  145 

around  at  the  bent  heads  and  drawn  mouths  of 
his  auditors,  saw  that  his  words  had  gone  home. 
It  was  Marraby  who  revealed  how  powerfully 
home  they  had  gone. 

"Dorset,"  he  said  huskily,  "I  shall  die  too." 

The  Duke  flung  up  his  hands,  staring  wildly. 

"I  stand  in  with  that,"  said  Mr.  Oover. 

"So  do  I!"  said  Lord  Sayes.  "And  I!"  said 
Mr.  Trent-Garby;  "And  I!"  The  MacQuern. 

The  Duke  found  voice.  "Are  you  mad?"  he 
asked,  clutching  at  his  throat.  "Are  you  all 
mad?" 

"No,  Duke,"  said  Mr.  Oover.  "Or,  if  we  are,, 
you  have  no  right  to  be  at  large.  You  have  shown 
us  the  way.     We — take  it." 

"Just  so,"  said  The  MacQuern,  stolidly. 

"Listen,  you  fools,"  cried  the  Duke.  But 
through  the  open  window  came  the  vibrant  stroke 
of  some  clock.  He  wheeled  round,  plucked  out 
his  watch — nine  ! — the  concert ! — his  promise  not 
to  be  late  ! — Zuleika  ! 

All  other  thoughts  vanished.  In  an  instant  he 
dodged  beneath  the  sash  of  the  window.  From 
the  flower-box  he  sprang  to  the  road  beneath. 
(The  fagade  of  the  house  is  called,  to  this  day, 
Dorset's  Leap.)  Alighting  with  the  legerity  of  a 
cat,  he  swerved  leftward  in  the  recoil,  and  was 
off,  like  a  streak  of  mulberry-coloured  lightning, 
down  the  High. 

The  other  men  had  rushed  to  the  window,  fear- 


146  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

ing  the  worst.  "No,"  cried  Oovcr.  "That's  all 
right.  Saves  time!"  and  he  raised  himself  on  to 
the  window-box.  It  splintered  under  his  weight. 
He  leapt  heavily  but  well,  followed  by  some  up- 
rooted geraniums.  Squaring  his  shoulders,  he 
threw  back  his  head,  and  doubled  down  the  slope. 

There  was  a  violent  jostle  between  the  remain- 
ing men.  The  MacQuern  cannily  got  out  of  it, 
and  rushed  downstairs.  He  emerged  at  the  front- 
door just  after  Marraby  touched  ground.  The 
Baronet's  left  ankle  had  twisted  under  him.  His 
face  was  drawn  with  pain  as  he  hopped  down 
the  High  on  his  right  foot,  fingering  his  ticket 
for  the  concert.  Next  leapt  Lord  Sayes.  And 
last  of  all  leapt  Mr.  Trent-Garby,  who,  catching 
his  foot  In  the  ruined  flower-box,  fell  headlong, 
and  was,  I  regret  to  say,  killed.  Lord  Sayes 
passed  Sir  John  In  a  few  paces.  The  MacQuern 
overtook  Mr.  Oover  at  St.  Mary's  and  outstripped 
him  in  Radcliffe  Square.  The  Duke  came  In  an 
easy  first. 

Youth,  youth ! 


IX 


Across  the  Front  Quadrangle,  heedless  of  the 
great  crowd  to  right  and  left,  Dorset  rushed.  Up 
the  stone  steps  to  the  Hall  he  bounded,  and  only 
on  the  Hall's  threshold  was  he  brought  to  a  pause. 
The  doorway  was  blocked  by  the  backs  of  youths 
who  had  by  hook  and  crook  secured  standing- 
room.  The  whole  scene  was  surprisingly  unlike 
that  of  the  average  College  concert. 

"Let  me  pass,"  said  the  Duke,  rather  breath- 
lessly. "Thank  you.  Make  way  please.  Thanks." 
And  with  quick-pulsing  heart  he  made  his  way 
down  the  aisle  to  the  front  row.  There  awaited 
him  a  surprise  that  was  like  a  douche  of  cold  water 
full  in  his  face.  Zuleika  was  not  there!  It  had 
never  occurred  to  him  that  she  herself  might  not 
be  punctual. 

The  Warden  was  there,  reading  his  programme 
with  an  air  of  great  solemnity.  "Where,"  asked 
the  Duke,  "is  your  grand-daughter?"  His  tone 
was  as  of  a  man  saying  "If  she  is  dead,  don't 
break  it  gently  to  me." 

"My  grand-daughter?"  said  the  Warden.  "Ah, 
Duke,  good  evening." 

"She's  not  ill?" 

147 


I4S  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

"Oh  no,  I  think  not.  She  said  something  about 
changing  the  dress  she  wore  at  dinner.  She  will 
come."  And  the  Warden  thanked  his  young 
friend  for  the  great  kindness  he  had  shown  to 
Zuleika.  He  hoped  the  Duke  had  not  let  her 
worry  him  with  her  artless  prattle.  "She  seems 
to  be  a  good,  amiable  girl,"  he  added,  in  his  de- 
tached way. 

Sitting  beside  him,  the  Duke  looked  curiously 
at  the  venerable  profile,  as  at  a  mummy's.  To 
think  that  this  had  once  been  a  man!  To  think 
that  his  blood  flowed  in  the  veins  of  Zuleika! 
Hitherto  the  Duke  had  seen  nothing  grotesque  in 
him — had  regarded  hifri  always  as  a  dignified 
specimen  of  priest  and  scholar.  Such  a  life  as  the 
Warden's,  year  following  year  in  ornamental  se- 
clusion from  the  follies  and  fusses  of  the  world, 
had  to  the  Duke  seemed  rather  admirable  and 
enviable.  Often  he  himself  had  (for  a  minute  or 
so)  meditated  taking  a  fellowship  at  All  Souls 
and  spending  here  in  Oxford  the  greater  part  of 
his  life.  He  had  never  been  young,  and  it  never 
had  occurred  to  him  that  the  Warden  had  been 
young  once.  To-night  he  saw  the  old  man  In  a 
new  light — saw  that  he  was  mad.  Here  was  a 
man  who — for  had  he  not  married  and  begotten 
a  child? — must  have  known,  in  some  degree,  the 
emotion  of  love.  How,  after  that,  could  he  have 
gone  on  thus,  year  by  year,  rusting  among  his 
books,  asking  no  favour  of  life,  waiting  for  death 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  149 

without  a  sign  of  impatience?  Why  had  he  not 
killed  himself  long  ago?  Why  cumbered  he  the 
earth? 

On  the  dais  an  undergraduate  was  singing  a 
song  entitled  "She  Loves  Not  Me."  Such  plaints 
are  apt  to  leave  us  unharrowed.  Across  the  foot- 
lights of  an  opera-house,  the  despair  of  some 
Italian  tenor  in  red  tights  and  a  yellow  wig  may 
be  convincing  enough.  Not  so,  at  a  concert,  the 
despair  of  a  shy  British  amateur  in  evening  dress. 
The  undergraduate  on  the  dais,  fumbling  with 
his  sheet  of  music  while  he  predicted  that  only 
when  he  were  "laid  within  the  church-yard  cold 
and  grey"  would  his  lady  begin  to  pity  him, 
seemed  to  the  Duke  rather  ridiculous;  but  not 
half  so  ridiculous  as  the  Warden.  This  fictitious 
love-affair  was  less  nugatory  than  the  actual 
humdrum  for  which  Dr.  Dobson  had  sold  his  soul 
to  the  devil.  Also,  little  as  one  might  suspect  it, 
the  warbler  was  perhaps  expressing  a  genuine 
sentiment.  Zulelka  herself,  belike,  was  In  his 
thoughts. 

As  he  began  the  second  stanza,  predicting  that 
when  his  lady  died  too  the  angels  of  heaven  would 
bear  her  straight  to  him,  the  audience  heard  a 
loud  murmur,  or  subdued  roar,  outside  the  Hall. 
And  after  a  few  bars  the  warbler  suddenly  ceased, 
staring  straight  In  front  of  him  as  though  he  saw 
a  vision.  Automatically,  all  heads  veered  in  the 
direction  of  his  gaze.     From  the  entrance,  slowly 


I50  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

along  the  aisle,  came  Zuleika,  brilliant  in  black. 

To  the  Duke,  who  had  rapturously  risen,  she 
nodded  and  smiled  as  she  swerved  down  on  the 
chair  beside  him.  She  looked  to  him  somehow 
different.  He  had  quite  forgiven  her  for  being 
late  :  her  mere  presence  was  a  perfect  excuse.  And 
the  very  change  in  her,  though  he  could  not  de- 
fine it,  was  somehow  pleasing  to  him.  He  was 
about  to  question  her,  but  she  shook  her  head  and 
held  up  to  her  lips  a  black-gloved  forefinger,  en- 
joining silence  for  the  singer,  w'ho,  with  dogged 
British  pluck,  had  harked  back  to  the  beginning 
of  the  second  stanza.  When  his  task  was  done 
and  he  shuffled  down  from  the  dais,  he  received  a 
great  ovation.  Zuleika,  in  the  way  peculiar  to 
persons  who  are  in  the  habit  of  appearing  before 
the  public,  held  her  hands  well  above  the  level  of 
her  brow,  and  clapped  them  with  a  vigour  dem- 
onstrative not  less  of  her  presence  than  of  her 
delight. 

"And  now,"  she  asked,  turning  to  the  Duke, 
"do  you  see?  do  you  see?" 

"Something,  yes.     But  what?" 

"Isn't  it  plain?"  Lightly  she  touched  the  lobe 
of  her  left  ear.     "Aren't  you  flattered?" 

He  knew  now  what  made  the  difference.  It  was 
that  her  little  face  was  flanked  by  two  black 
pearls. 

"Think,"  said  she,  "how  deeply  I  must  have 
been  brooding  over  you  since  we  parted!" 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  151 

"Is  this  really,"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the  left 
ear-ring,  "the  pearl  you  wore  to-day?" 

"Yes.  Isn't  it  strange?  A  man  ought  to  be 
pleased  when  a  woman  goes  quite  unconsciously 
into  mourning  for  him — goes  just  because  she 
really  does  mourn  him." 

"I  am  more  than  pleased.  I  am  touched.  When 
did  the  change  come?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  only  noticed  it  after  dinner, 
when  I  saw  myself  in  the  mirror.  All  through 
dinner  I  had  been  thinking  of  you  and  of — well, 
of  to-morrow.  And  this  dear  sensitive  pink  pearl 
had  again  expressed  my  soul.  And  there  was  I, 
in  a  yellow  gown  with  green  embroideries,  gay 
as  a  jacamar,  jarring  hideously  on  myself.  I  cov- 
ered my  eyes  and  rushed  upstairs,  rang  the  bell 
and  tore  my  things  off.    My  maid  was  very  cross." 

Cross !  The  Duke  was  shot  through  with  envy 
of  one  who  was  in  a  position  to  be  unkind  to 
Zuleika.  "Happy  maid  !"  he  murmured.  Zuleika 
replied  that  he  was  stealing  her  thunder:  hadn't 
she  envied  the  girl  at  his  lodgings?  "But  /," 
she  said,  "wanted  only  to  serve  you  in  meekness. 
The  idea  of  ever  being  pert  to  you  didn't  enter 
into  my  head.  You  show  a  side  of  your  character 
as  unpleasing  as  it  was  unforeseen." 

"Perhaps  then,"  said  the  Duke,  "it  is  as  well 
that  I  am  going  to  die."  She  acknowledged  his 
rebuke  with  a  pretty  gesture  of  penitence.  "You 
may  have  been  faultless  in  love,"  he  added;  "but 


152  ZILFIKA    DOBSON 

you  would  not  liavc  laid  down  your  lilc  for  mc." 
"Oh,"  she  answered,  "wouldn't  I  though?  You 
don't  know  me.  That  is  just  the  sort  of  thing  I 
should  have  loved  to  do.  I  am  much  more  ro- 
mantic than  you  are,  really.  I  wonder,"  she  said, 
glancing  at  his  breast,  "if  your  pink  pearl  would 
have  turned  black?  And  I  wonder  if  you  would 
have  taken  the  trouble  to  change  that  extraor- 
dinary coat  you  are  wearing?" 

In  sooth,  no  costume  could  have  been  more 
beautifully  Cimmerian  than  Zuleika's.  And  yet, 
thought  the  Duke,  watching  her  as  the  concert 
proceeded,  the  effect  of  her  was  not  lugubrious. 
Her  darkness  shone.  The  black  satin  gown  she 
wore  was  a  stream  of  shifting  high-lights.  Big 
black  diamonds  were  around  her  throat  and 
wrists,  and  tiny  black  diamonds  starred  the  fan 
she  wielded.  In  her  hair  gleamed  a  great  raven's 
wing.  And  brighter,  brighter  than  all  these  were 
her  eyes.  Assuredly  no,  there  was  nothing  morbid 
about  her.  Would  one  even  (wondered  the  Duke, 
for  a  disloyal  instant)  go  so  far  as  to  say  she  was 
heartless?  Ah  no,  she  was  merely  strong.  She 
was  one  who  could  tread  the  tragic  plane  without 
stumbling,  and  be  resilient  in  the  valley  of  the 
shadow.  What  she  had  just  said  was  no  more 
than  the  truth:  she  would  have  loved  to  die  for 
him,  had  he  not  forfeited  her  heart.  She  would 
have  asked  no  tears.  That  she  had  none  to  shed 
for  him  now,  that  she  did  but  share  his  exhilara- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  153 

tlon,  was  the  measure  of  her  worthiness  to  have 
the  homage  of  his  self-slaughter. 

"By  the  way,"  she  whispered,  "I  want  to  ask 
one  little  favour  of  you.  Will  you,  please,  at  the 
last  moment  to-morrow,  call  out  my  name  In  a 
loud  voice,  so  that  every  one  around  can  hear?" 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"So  that  no  one  shall  ever  be  able  to  say  It 
wasn't  for  me  that  you  died,  you  know." 

"May  I  use  simply  your  Christian  name?" 

"Yes,  I  really  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't — 
at  such  a  moment." 

"Thank  you."     His  face  glowed. 

Thus  did  they  commune,  these  two,  radiant 
without  and  within.  And  behind  them,  through- 
out the  Hall,  the  undergraduates  craned  their 
necks  for  a  glimpse.  The  Duke's  piano  solo, 
which  was  the  last  item  In  the  first  half  of  the 
programme,  was  eagerly  awaited.  Already,  whis- 
pered first  from  the  lips  of  Oover  and  the  others 
who  had  come  on  from  the  Junta,  the  news  of 
his  resolve  had  gone  from  ear  to  ear  among  the 
men.  He,  for  his  part,  had  forgotten  the  scene 
at  the  Junta,  the  baleful  effect  of  his  example. 
For  him  the  Hall  was  a  cave  of  solitude — no  one 
there  but  Zulelka  and  himself.  Yet  almost,  like 
the  late  Mr.  John  Bright,  he  heard  In  the  air 
the  beating  of  the  wings  of  the  Angel  of  Death. 
Not  awful  wings;  little  wings  that  sprouted  from 
the  shoulders  of  a  rosy  and  blindfold  child.   Love 


154  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

aiul  Death — for  him  they  were  exquisitely  one. 
AikI  it  seemed  to  him,  A\hen  his  turn  cai7ie  to 
phiy,  that  he  floated,  rather  than  walked,  to  the 
dais. 

He  had  not  considered  what  he  would  play  to- 
night. Nor,  maybe,  was  he  conscious  now  of 
choosing.  His  fingers  caressed  the  keyboard 
vaguely;  and  anon  this  ivory  had  voice  and  lan- 
guage; and  for  its  master,  and  for  some  of  his 
hearers,  arose  a  vision.  And  it  was  as  though  in 
delicate  procession,  very  slowly,  listless  with  weep- 
ing, certain  figures  passed  by,  hooded,  and  droop- 
ing forasmuch  as  by  the  loss  of  him  whom  they 
were  following  to  his  grave  their  own  hold  on 
life  had  been  loosened.  He  had  been  so  beautiful 
and  young.  Lo,  he  was  but  a  burden  to  be  carried 
hence,  dust  to  be  hidden  out  of  sight.  Very 
slowly,  very  wretchedly  they  went  by.  But,  as 
they  went,  another  feeling,  faint  at  first,  an  all 
but  imperceptible  current,  seemed  to  flow  through 
the  procession;  and  now  one,  now  another  of  the 
mourners  would  look  wanly  up,  with  cast-black 
hood,  as  though  listening;  and  anon  all  were 
listening  on  their  way,  first  in  wonder,  then  in 
rapture;  for  the  soul  of  their  friend  was  singing 
to  them:  they  heard  his  voice,  but  clearer  and 
more  blithe  than  they  had  ever  known  it — a  voice 
etherealised  by  a  triumph  of  joy  that  was  not  yet 
for  them  to  share.  But  presently  the  voice  re- 
ceded,   its    echoes    dying    away   into   the    sphere 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  155 

whence  It  came.  It  ceased;  and  the  mourners 
were  left  alone  again  with  their  sorrow,  and 
passed  on  all  unsolaced,  and  drooping,  weeping. 

Soon  after  the  Duke  had  begun  to  play,  an 
invisible  figure  came  and  stood  by  and  listened: 
a  frail  man,  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  1840;  the 
shade  of  none  other  than  Frederic  Chopin.  Be- 
hind whom,  a  moment  later,  came  a  woman  of 
somewhat  masculine  aspect  and  dominant  de- 
meanour, mounting  guard  over  him,  and,  as  it 
were,  ready  to  catch  him  if  he  fell.  He  bowed 
his  head  lower  and  lower,  he  looked  up  with  an 
ecstasy  more  and  more  intense,  according  to  the 
procedure  of  his  Marche  Funebre.  And  among 
the  audience,  too,  there  was  a  bowing  and  up- 
lifting of  heads,  just  as  among  the  figures  of  the 
m.ourners  evoked.  Yet  the  head  of  the  player 
himself  was  all  the  while  erect,  and  his  face  glad 
and  serene.  Nobly  sensitive  as  was  his  playing 
of  the  mournful  passages,  he  smiled  brilliantly 
through  them. 

And  Zuleika  returned  his  gaze  with  a  smile 
not  less  gay.  She  was  not  sure  what  he  was  play- 
ing. But  she  assumed  that  it  was  for  her,  and 
that  the  music  had  some  reference  to  his  impend- 
ing death.  She  was  one  of  the  people  who  say 
"I  don't  know  anything  about  music  really,  but  I 
know  what  I  like."  And  she  liked  this;  and  she 
beat  time  to  it  with  her  fan.  She  thought  her 
Duke  looked  very  handsome.     She  was  proud  of 


156  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

hini.  Strange  that  this  time  yesterday  she  had 
been  wildly  in  love  with  him!  Strange,  too,  that 
this  time  to-morrow  he  would  be  dead!  She  was 
immensely  glad  she  had  saved  him  this  afternoon. 
To-morrow!  There  came  back  to  her  what  he 
had  told  her  about  the  omen  at  Tankerton,  that 
stately  home:  "On  the  eve  of  the  death  of  a 
Duke  of  Dorset,  two  black  owls  come  always  and 
perch  on  the  battlements.  They  remain  there 
through  the  night,  hooting.  At  dawn  they  fly 
away,  none  knows  whither."  Perhaps,  thought 
she,  at  this  very  moment  these  two  birds  were  on 
the  battlements. 

The  music  ceased.  In  the  hush  that  followed  it, 
her  applause  rang  sharp  and  notable.  Not  so 
Chopin's.  Of  him  and  his  intense  excitement  none 
but  his  companion  was  aware.  "Plus  fin  que 
Pachmann!"  he  reiterated,  waving  his  arms 
wildly,  and  dancing. 

"Tu  auras  une  migraine  affreuse.  Rcntrons, 
petit  coeur!"  said  George  Sand,  gently  but  firmly. 

"Laisse-moi  le  saluer,"  cried  the  composer, 
struggling  in  her  grasp. 

"Demain  soir,  oui.  II  sera  parmi  nous,"  said 
the  novelist,  as  she  hurried  him  away.  "Moi 
aussi,"  she  added  to  herself,  "je  me  promets  un 
beau  plaisir  en  faisant  la  connaissance  de  ce 
jeune  homme." 

Zuleika  was  the  first  to  rise  as  "ce  jeune 
homme"  came  down  from  the  dais.    Now  was  the 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  157 

interval  between  the  two  parts  of  the  programme. 
There  was  a  general  creaking  and  scraping  of 
pushed-back  chairs  as  the  audience  rose  and  went 
forth  into  the  night.  The  noise  aroused  from 
sleep  the  good  Warden,  who,  having  peered  at  his 
programme,  complimented  the  Duke  with  old- 
world  courtesy  and  went  to  sleep  again.  Zuleika, 
thrusting  her  fan  under  one  arm,  shook  the  player 
by  both  hands.  Also,  she  told  him  that  she  knew 
nothing  about  music  really,  but  that  she  knew 
what  she  liked.  As  she  passed  with  him  up  the 
aisle,  she  said  this  again.  People  who  say  it  are 
never  tired  of  saying  it. 

Outside,  the  crowd  was  greater  than  ever.  All 
the  undergraduates  from  all  the  Colleges  seemed 
now  to  be  concentrated  in  the  great  Front  Quad- 
rangle of  Judas.  Even  in  the  glow  of  the  Japa- 
nese lanterns  that  hung  around  in  honour  of  the 
concert,  the  faces  of  the  lads  looked  a  little  pale. 
For  it  was  known  by  all  now  that  the  Duke  was 
to  die.  Even  while  the  concert  was  in  progress, 
the  news  had  spread  out  from  the  Hall,  through 
the  thronged  doorway,  down  the  thronged  steps, 
to  the  confines  of  the  crowd.  Nor  had  Oover 
and  the  other  men  from  the  Junta  made  any  se- 
cret of  their  own  determination.  And  now,  as 
the  rest  saw  Zuleika  yet  again  at  close  quarters, 
and  verified  their  remembrance  of  her,  the  half- 
formed  desire  in  them  to  die  too  was  hardened  to 


a  vow. 


158  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

Vou  cannot  make  a  man  by  standing  a  sheep 
on  its  hind-legs.  But  by  standing  a  flock,  of  sheep 
in  that  position  you  can  make  a  crowd  of  men. 
It  man  were  not  a  gregarious  animal,  the  world 
might  have  achieved,  by  this  time,  some  real  pro- 
gress towards  civilisation.  Segregate  him,  and  he 
is  no  fool.  But  let  him  loose  among  his  fellows, 
and  he  is  lost — he  becomes  just  an  unit  in  un- 
reason. If  any  one  of  the  undergraduates  had 
met  Miss  Dobson  in  the  desert  of  Sahara,  he 
would  have  fallen  in  love  with  her;  but  not  one 
in  a  thousand  of  them  would  have  wished  to  die 
because  she  did  not  love  him.  The  Duke's  was  a 
peculiar  case.  For  him  to  fall  in  love  was  itself 
a  violent  peripety,  bound  to  produce  a  violent  up- 
heaval; and  such  was  his  pride  that  for  his  love 
to  be  unrequited  would  naturally  enamour  him  of 
death.  These  other,  these  quite  ordinary,  young 
men  were  the  victims  less  of  Zulelka  than  of  the 
Duke's  example,  and  of  one  another.  A  crowd, 
proportionately  to  Its  size,  magnifies  all  that  in 
its  units  pertains  to  the  emotions,  and  diminishes 
all  that  in  them  pertains  to  thought.  It  was  be- 
cause these  undergraduates  were  a  crowd  that 
their  passion  for  Zulelka  was  so  Intense;  and  it 
was  because  they  were  a  crowd  that  they  followed 
so  blindly  the  lead  given  to  them.  To  die  for 
Miss  Dobson  was  "the  thing  to  do."  The  Duke, 
was  going  to  do  it.  The  Junta  was  going  to  do  it. 
It  is  a  hateful  fact,  but  we  must  face  the  fact, 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  159 

that  snobbishness  was  one  of  the  springs  to  the 
tragedy  here  chronicled. 

We  may  set  to  this  crowd's  credit  that  it  re- 
frained now  from  following  Zuleika.  Not  one 
of  the  ladies  present  was  deserted  by  her  escort. 
All  the  men  recognised  the  Duke's  right  to  be 
alone  with  Zuleika  now.  We  may  set  also  to  their 
credit  that  they  carefully  guarded  the  ladies  from 
all  knowledge  of  what  was  afoot. 

Side  by  side,  the  great  lover  and  his  beloved 
wandered  away,  beyond  the  light  of  the  Japanese 
lanterns,  and  came  to  Salt  Cellar. 

The  moon,  like  a  gardenia  in  the  night's  button- 
hole— but  no !  why  should  a  writer  never  be  able 
to  mention  the  moon  without  likening  her  to 
something  else — usually  something  to  which  she 
bears  not  the  faintest  resemblance?.  .  .  The  moon, 
looking  like  nothing  whatsoever  but  herself,  was 
engaged  in  her  old  and  futile  endeavour  to  mark 
the  hours  correctly  on  the  sun-dial  at  the  centre  of 
the  lawn.  Never,  except  once,  late  one  night  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  v/hen  the  toper  who  was 
Sub-Warden  had  spent  an  hour  in  trying  to  set 
his  watch  here,  had  she  received  the  slightest  en- 
couragement. Still  she  wanly  persisted.  And  this 
was  the  more  absurd  in  her  because  Salt  Cellar 
offered  very  good  scope  for  those  legitimate  effects 
of  hers  which  we  one  and  all  admire.  Was  it 
nothing  to  her  to  have  cut  those  black  shadows 
across  the  cloisters?     Was  it  nothing  to  her  that 


i6o  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

she  so  magically  mingled  her  rays  with  the  candle- 
light shed  forth  from  Zulelka's  bedroom?  Noth- 
ing, that  she  had  cleansed  the  lawn  of  all  its  col- 
our, and  made  of  It  a  platform  of  silver-grey,  fit 
for  fairies  to  dance  on? 

If  Zuleika,  as  she  paced  the  gravel  path,  had 
seen  how  transfigured — how  nobly  like  the  Tragic 
Muse — she  was  just  now,  she  could  not  have  gone 
on  bothering  the  Duke  for  a  keepsake  of  the 
tragedy  that  was  to  be. 

She  was  still  set  on  having  his  two  studs.  He 
was  still  firm  in  his  refusal  to  misappropriate 
those  heirlooms.  In  vain  she  pointed  out  to  him 
that  the  pearls  he  meant,  the  white  ones,  no  longer 
existed;  that  the  pearls  he  was  wearing  were  no 
more  "entailed"  than  if  he  had  got  them  yester- 
day. "And  you  actually  did  get  them  yester- 
day," she  said.  "And  from  me.  And  I  want 
them  back." 

"You  are  ingenious,"  he  admitted.  "I,  in  my 
simple  way,  am  but  head  of  the  Tanville-Tanker- 
ton  family.  Had  you  accepted  my  ofier  of  mar- 
riage, you  would  have  had  the  right  to  wear  these 
two  pearls  during  your  life-time.  I  am  very 
happy  to  die  for  you.  But  tamper  with  the  prop- 
erty of  my  successor  I  cannot  and  will  not.  I  am 
sorry,"  he  added. 

"Sorry!"  echoed  Zuleika.  "Yes,  and  you  were 
'sorry'  you  couldn't  dine  with  me  to-night.  But 
any  little  niggling  scruple  is  more  to  you  than  I 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  i6i 

am.  What  old  maids  men  are !"  And  viciously 
with  her  fan  she  struck  one  of  the  cloister  pillars. 

Her  outburst  was  lost  on  the  Duke.  At  her 
taunt  about  his  not  dining  with  her,  he  had  stood 
still,  clapping  one  hand  to  his  brow.  The  events 
of  the  early  evening  swept  back  to  him — his 
speech,  its  unforeseen  and  horrible  reception.  He 
saw  again  the  preternaturally  solemn  face  of 
Oover,  and  the  flushed  faces  of  the  rest.  He  had 
thought,  as  he  pointed  down  to  the  abyss  over 
which  he  stood,  these  fellows  would  recoil,  and 
pull  themselves  together.  They  had  recoiled,  and 
pulled  themselves  together,  only  in  the  manner 
of  athletes  about  to  spring.  He  was  responsible 
for  them.  His  own  life  was  his  to  lose :  others  he 
must  not  squander.  Besides,  he  had  reckoned  to 
die  alone,  unique;  aloft  and  apart.  .  .  "There  is 
something — something  I  had  forgotten,"  he  said 
to  Zuleika,  "something  that  will  be  a  great  shock 
to  you";  and  he  gave  her  an  outline  of  what  had 
passed  at  the  Junta. 

"And  you  are  sure  they  really  meant  it?"  she 
asked  in  a  voice  that  trembled. 

"I  fear  so.  But  they  were  over-excited.  They 
will  recant  their  folly.     I  shall  force  them  to." 

"They  are  not  children.  You  yourself  have 
just  been  calling  them  'men.'  Why  should  they 
obey  you?" 

She  turned  at  sound  of  a  footstep,  and  saw  a 
young  man  approaching.    He  wore  a  coat  like  the 


i62  ZULF.IKA    DOBSON 

Duke's,  and  in  his  hand  he  dangled  a  handker- 
chieL  He  bowed  awkwardly,  and,  holding  out 
the  handkerchief,  said  to  her  "I  beg  your  pardon, 
but  I  think  you  dropped  this.  I  have  just  picked 
it  up." 

Zuleika  looked  at  the  handkerchief,  which  was 
obviously  a  man's,  and  smilingly  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  think  you  know  The  MacQuern,"  said 
the  Duke,  with  sulky  grace.  "This,"  he  said  to 
the  intruder,  "is  Miss  Dobson." 

"And  is  it  really  true,"  asked  Zuleika,  retaining 
The  MacQuern's  hand,  "that  you  want  to  die 
forme?" 

Well,  the  Scots  are  a  self-seeking  and  a  reso- 
lute, but  a  shy,  race;  swift  to  act,  when  swiftness 
is  needed,  but  seldom  knowing  quite  what  to  say. 
The  JVIacQuern,  with  native  reluctance  to  give 
something  for  nothing,  had  determined  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  the  young  lady  for  whom 
he  was  to  lay  down  his  life;  and  this  purpose  he 
had,  by  the  simple  stratagem  of  his  own  hand- 
kerchief, achieved.  Nevertheless,  in  answer  to 
Zuleika's  question,  and  with  the  pressure  of  her 
hand  to  inspire  him,  the  only  word  that  rose  to 
his  lips  was  "Ay"  (which  may  be  roughly  trans- 
lated as  "Yes"). 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  interposed 
the  Duke. 

"There,"  said  Zuleika,  still  retaining  The  Mac- 
Quern's   hand,    "you   see,    it   is   forbidden.     You 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  163 

must  not  defy  our  dear  little  Duke.  He  is  not 
used  to  it.     It  is  not  done." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  The  MacQuern,  with  a 
stony  glance  at  the  Duke,  "that  he  has  anything 
to  do  with  the  matter." 

"He  is  older  and  wiser  than  you.  More  a  man 
of  the  world.     Regard  him  as  your  tutor." 

"Do  you  want  me  not  to  die  for  you?"  asked 
the  young  man. 

"Ah,  /  should  not  dare  to  impose  my  wishes 
on  you,"  said  she,  dropping  his  hand.  "Even," 
she  added,  "if  I  knew  what  my  wishes  were.  And 
I  don't.  I  know  only  that  I  think  it  is  very,  very 
beautiful  of  you  to  think  of  dying  for  me." 

"Then  that  settles  it,"  said  The  MacQuern. 

"No,  no !  You  must  not  let  yourself  be  influ- 
enced by  me.  Besides,  I  am  not  in  a  mood  to 
influence  anybody.  I  am  overwhelmed.  Tell  me," 
she  said,  heedless  of  the  Duke,  who  stood  tapping 
his  heel  on  the  ground,  with  every  manifestation 
of  disapproval  and  impatience,  "tell  me,  is  it  true 
that  some  of  the  other  men  love  me  too,  and — 
feel  as  you  do?" 

The  MacQuern  said  cautiously  that  he  could 
answer  for  no  one  but  himself.  "But,"  he  al- 
lowed, "I  saw  a  good  many  men  whom  I  know, 
outside  the  Hall  here,  just  now,  and  they  seemed 
to  have  made  up  their  minds." 

"To  die  for  me?    To-morrow?" 

"To-morrow.    After  the  Eights,  I  suppose;  at 


1 64  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

the  same  time  as  the  Duke.  It  wouldn't  do  to 
leave  the  races  undecided." 

^^Of  course  not.  But  the  poor  dears !  It  is  too 
touching!  I  have  done  nothing,  nothing  to  de- 
serve it." 

"Nothing  whatsoever,"  said  the  Duke  drily. 

"Oh  he/''  said  Zuleika,  "thinks  me  an  unre- 
deemed brute ;  just  because  I  don't  love  him.  You, 
dear  Mr.  MacQuern — does  one  call  you  'Mr.'? 
'The'  would  sound  so  odd  in  the  vocative.  And 
I  can't  very  well  call  you  'MacQuern' — you  don't 
think  me  unkind,  do  you?  I  simply  can't  bear  to 
think  of  all  these  young  lives  cut  short  without 
my  having  done  a  thing  to  brighten  them.  What 
can  I  do? — what  can  I  do  to  show  my  gratitude?" 

An  idea  struck  her.  She  looked  up  to  the  lit 
window  of  her  room.     "Melisande!"  she  called. 

A  figure  appeared  at  the  window.  "Mademoi- 
selle desire?" 

"My  tricks,  Melisande!  Bring  down  the  box, 
quick!"  She  turned  excitedly  to  the  two  young 
men.  "It  is  all  I  can  do  in  return,  you  see.  If  I 
could  dance  for  them,  I  would.  If  I  could  sing, 
I  would  sing  to  them.  I  do  what  I  can.  You," 
she  said  to  the  Duke,  "must  go  on  to  the  platform 
and  announce  it." 

"Announce  what?" 

"Why,  that  I  am  going  to  do  my  tricks!  All 
you  need  say  is  'Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  the 
pleasure  to '   What  is  the  matter  now?" 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  165 

"You  make  me  feel  slightly  unwell,"  said  the 
Duke. 

"And  you  are  the  most  d-dis-disobllglng  and 
the  unkindest  and  the  b-beastliest  person  I  ever 
met,"  Zuleika  sobbed  at  him  through  her  hands. 
The  MacQuern  glared  reproaches  at  hnn.  So  did 
Mellsande,  who  had  just  appeared  through  the 
postern,  holding  in  her  arms  the  great  casket  of 
malachite.  A  painful  scene;  and  the  Duke  gave 
in.  He  said  he  would  do  anything — anything. 
Peace  was  restored. 

The  MacQuern  had  relieved  Mellsande  of  her 
burden;  and  to  him  was  the  privilege  of  bearing 
it,  in  procession  with  his  adored  and  her  quelled 
mentor,  towards  the  Hall. 

Zuleika  babbled  like  a  child  going  to  a  juvenile 
party.  This  was  the  great  night,  as  yet,  in  her 
life.  Illustrious  enough  already  it  had  seemed  to 
her,  as  eve  of  that  ultimate  flattery  vowed  her  by 
the  Duke.  So  fine  a  thing  had  his  doom  seemed 
to  her — his  doom  alone — that  it  had  sufficed  to 
flood  her  pink  pearl  with  the  right  hue.  And  now 
not  on  him  alone  need  she  ponder.  Now  he  was 
but  the  centre  of  a  group — a  group  that  might 
grow  and  grow — a  group  that  might  with  a  little 
encouragement  be  a  multitude.  .  .  With  such 
hopes  dimly  whirling  in  the  recesses  of  her  soul, 
her  beautiful  red  lips  babbled. 


X 


Sounds  of  a  violin,  drifting  out  through  the  open 
windows  of  the  Hall,  suggested  that  the  second 
part  of  the  concert  had  begun.  All  the  under- 
graduates, however,  except  the  few  who  figured 
in  the  programme,  had  waited  outside  till  their 
mistress  should  re-appear.  The  sisters  and  cous- 
ins of  the  Judas  men  had  been  escorted  back  to 
their  places  and  hurriedly  left  there. 

It  was  a  hushed,  tense  crowd. 

"The  poor  darlings!"  murmured  Zuleika,  paus- 
ing to  survey  them.  "And  oh,"  she  exclaimed, 
"there  won't  be  room  for  all  of  them  in  there!" 

"You  might  give  an  'overflow'  performance  out 
here  afterwards,"  suggested  the  Duke,  grimly. 

This  idea  flashed  on  her  a  better.  Why  not 
give  her  performance  here  and  now? — now,  so 
eager  was  she  for  contact,  as  it  were,  with  this 
crowd;  here,  by  moonlight,  in  the  pretty  glow  of 
these  paper  lanterns.  Yes,  she  said,  let  it  be  here 
and  now;  and  she  bade  the  Duke  make  the  an- 
nouncement. 

"What  shall  I  say?"  he  asked.  "  'Gentlemen, 
I  have  the  pleasure  to  announce  that  Miss  Zuleika 
Dobson,   the   world-renowned   She-Wizard,   will 

i66 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  167 

now  oblige'?  Or  shall  I  call  them  'Gents,'  tout 
courtT' 

She  could  afford  to  laugh  at  his  ill-humour. 
She  had  his  promise  of  obedience.  She  told  him 
to  say  something  graceful  and  simple. 

The  noise  of  the  violin  had  ceased.  There  was 
not  a  breath  of  wind.  The  crowd  in  the  quad- 
rangle was  as  still  and  as  silent  as  the  night  itself. 
Nowhere  a  tremour.  And  it  was  borne  in  on 
Zuleika  that  this  crowd  had  one  mind  as  well  as 
one  heart — a  common  resolve,  calm  and  clear,  as 
well  as  a  common  passion.  No  need  for  her  to 
strengthen  the  spell  now.  No  waverers  here. 
And  thus  it  came  true  that  gratitude  was  the  sole 
motive  for  her  display. 

She  stood  with  eyes  downcast  and  hands  folded 
behind  her,  moonlit  in  the  glow  of  lanterns,  mod- 
est to  the  point  of  pathos,  while  the  Duke  grace- 
fully and  simply  introduced  her  to  the  multitude. 
He  was,  he  said,  empowered  by  the  lady  who 
stood  beside  him  to  say  that  she  would  be  pleased 
to  give  them  an  exhibition  of  her  skill  in  the  art 
to  which  she  had  devoted  her  life — an  art  which, 
more  potently  perhaps  than  any  other,  touched  in 
mankind  the  sense  of  mystery  and  stirred  the  fac- 
ulty of  wonder;  the  most  truly  romantic  of  all  the 
arts:  he  referred  to  the  art  of  conjuring.  It  was 
not  too  much  to  say  that  by  her  mastery  of  this 
art,  in  which  hitherto,  it  must  be  confessed,  women 
had  made  no  very  great  mark,  Miss  Zuleika  Dob- 


i6S  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

son  (for  such  was  the  name  of  the  lady  who  stood 
beside  liini)  had  earned  the  esteem  of  the  whole 
civilised  world.  And  here  in  Oxford,  and  in  this 
College  especially,  she  had  a  peculiar  claim  to — 
might  he  say? — their  affectionate  regard,  inas- 
much as  she  was  the  grand-daughter  of  their  ven- 
erable and  venerated  Warden. 

As  the  Duke  ceased,  there  came  from  his  hear- 
ers a  sound  like  the  rustling  of  leaves.  In  return 
for  it,  Zuleika  performed  that  graceful  act  of 
subsidence  to  the  verge  of  collapse  which  is 
usually  kept  for  the  delectation  of  some  royal  per- 
son. And  indeed,  in  the  presence  of  this  doomed 
congress,  she  did  experience  humility;  for  she  was 
not  altogether  without  imagination.  But,  as  she 
arose  from  her  "bob,"  she  was  her  own  bold  self 
again,  bright  mistress  of  the  situation. 

It  was  impossible  for  her  to  give  her  entertain- 
ment in  full.  Some  of  her  tricks  (notably  the 
Secret  Aquarium,  and  the  Blazing  Ball  of  Wor- 
sted) needed  special  preparation,  and  a  table  fitted 
with  a  "servante"  or  secret  tray.  The  table  for 
to-night's  performance  was  an  ordinary  one, 
brought  out  from  the  porter's  lodge.  The  Mac- 
Quern  deposited  on  it  the  great  casket.  Zuleika, 
retaining  him  as  her  assistant,  picked  nimbly  out 
from  their  places  and  put  in  array  the  curious 
appurtenances  of  her  art — the  Magic  Canister, 
the  Demon  Egg-Cup,  and  the  sundry  other  vessels 
which,  lost  property  of  young  Edward  Gibbs,  had 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  169 

been  by  a  Romanoff  transmuted  from  wood  to 
gold,  and  were  now  by  the  moon  reduced  tempor- 
arily to  silver. 

In  a  great  dense  semicircle  the  young  men  dis- 
posed themselves  around  her.  Those  who  were 
in  front  squatted  down  on  the  gravel;  those  who 
were  behind  knelt;  the  rest  stood.  Young  Ox- 
ford! Here,  in  this  mass  of  boyish  faces,  all 
fused  and  obhterated,  was  the  realisation  of  that 
phrase.  Two  or  three  thousands  of  human  bod- 
ies, human  souls?  Yet  the  effect  of  them  in  the 
moonlight  was  as  of  one  great  passive  monster. 

So  was  It  seen  by  the  Duke,  as  he  stood  leaning 
against  the  wall,  behind  Zuleika's  table.  He  saw 
it  as  a  monster  couchant  and  enchanted,  a  monster 
that  was  to  die;  and  its  death  was  in  part  his 
own  doing.  But  remorse  in  him  gave  place  to 
hostility.  Zuleika  had  begun  her  performance. 
She  was  producing  the  Barber's  Pole  from  her 
mouth.  And  it  was  to  her  that  the  Duke's  heart 
went  suddenly  out  in  tenderness  and  pity.  He 
forgot  her  levity  and  vanity — her  wickedness,  as 
he  had  inwardly  called  it.  He  thrilled  with  that 
intense  anxiety  which  comes  to  a  man  when  he 
sees  his  beloved  offering  to  the  public  an  exhibi- 
tion of  her  skill,  be  it  in  singing,  acting,  dancing, 
or  any  other  art.  Would  she  acquit  herself  well? 
The  lover's  trepidation  is  painful  enough  when 
the  beloved  has  genius — how  should  these  clods 
appreciate  her?  and  who  set  them  in  judgment 


lyo  zlij:ika  dobson 

over  her?  It  must  be  worse  when  the  beloved 
has  mediocrity.  And  Zuleika,  in  conjuring,  had 
rather  less  than  that.  Though  indeed  she  took 
herself  quite  seriously  as  a  conjurer,  she  brought 
to  her  art  neither  conscience  nor  ambition,  in  any 
true  sense  of  those  words.  Since  her  debut,  she 
had  learned  nothing  and  forgotten  nothing.  The 
stale  and  narrow  repertory  which  she  had  ac- 
quired from  Edward  Gibbs  was  all  she  had  to 
offer;  and  this,  and  her  marked  lack  of  skill,  she 
eked  out  with  the  self-same  "patter"  that  had 
sufficed  that  impossible  young  man.  It  was  espe- 
cially her  jokes  that  now  sent  shudders  up  the 
spine  of  her  lover,  and  brought  tears  to  his  eyes, 
and  kept  him  in  a  state  of  terror  as  to  what  she 
would  say  next.  "You  see,"  she  had  exclaimed 
lightly  after  the  production  of  the  Barber's  Pole, 
"how  easy  it  is  to  set  up  business  as  a  hair- 
dresser." Over  the  Demon  Egg-Cup  she  said 
that  the  egg  was  "as  good  as  fresh."  And  her 
constantly  reiterated  catch-phrase — "Well,  this 
is  rather  queer!" — was  the  most  distressing  thing 
of  all. 

The  Duke  blushed  to  think  what  these  men 
thought  of  her.  Would  love  were  blind !  These 
her  lovers  were  doubtless  judging  her.  They  for- 
gave her — confound  their  impudence! — because 
of  her  beauty.  The  banality  of  her  performance 
was  an  added  grace.  It  made  her  piteous.  Damn 
them,  they  were  sorry  for  her.    Little  Noaks  was 


ZULEIKA    DOBSON  171 

squatting  in  the  front  row,  peering  up  at  her 
through  his  spectacles.  Noaks  was  as  sorry  for 
her  as  the  rest  of  them.  Why  didn't  the  earth 
yawn  and  swallow  them  all  up? 

Our  hero's  unreasoning  rage  was  fed  by  a  not 
unreasonable  jealousy.  It  was  clear  to  him  that 
Zuleika  had  forgotten  his  existence.  To-day,  as 
soon  as  he  had  killed  her  love,  she  had  shown  him 
how  much  less  to  her  was  his  love  than  the 
crowd's.  And  now  again  it  was  only  the  crowd 
she  cared  for.  He  followed  with  his  eyes  her 
long  slender  figure  as  she  threaded  her  way  in 
and  out  of  the  crowd,  sinuously,  confidingly,  pro- 
ducing a  penny  from  one  lad's  elbow,  a  three- 
penny-bit from  between  another's  neck  and  collar, 
half  a  crown  from  another's  hair,  and  always  re- 
peating in  that  flute-like  voice  of  hers  "Well,  this 
is  rather  queer!"  Hither  and  thither  she  fared, 
her  neck  and  arms  gleaming  white  from  the  lumi- 
nous blackness  of  her  dress,  in  the  luminous  blue- 
ness  of  the  night.  At  a  distance,  she  might  have 
been  a  wraith;  or  a  breeze  made  visible;  a  vagrom 
breeze,  warm  and  delicate,  and  in  league  with 
death. 

Yes,  that  is  how  she  might  have  seemed  to  a 
casual  observer.  But  to  the  Duke  there  was 
nothing  weird  about  her:  she  was  radiantly  a 
woman;  a  goddess;  and  his  first  and  last  love. 
Bitter  his  heart  was,  but  only  against  the  mob 
she  wooed,  not  against  her  for  wooing  it.     She 


/ 


ZL'LF.IKA    DOBSON 


was  cruel?  All  goddesses  arc  that.  She  was 
demeaning  herself?  His  soul  welled  up  anew  in 
pity,  in  passion. 

Yonder,  in  the  Hall,  the  concert  ran  its  course, 
making  a  feeble  incidental  music  to  the  dark 
emotions  of  the  quadrangle.  It  ended  somewhat 
before  the  close  of  Zuleika's  rival  show;  and  then 
the  steps  from  the  Hall  were  thronged  by  ladies, 
who,  with  a  sprinkling  of  dons,  stood  in  attitudes 
of  refined  displeasure  and  vulgar  curiosity.  The 
Warden  was  just  awake  enough  to  notice  the  sea 
of  undergraduates.  Suspecting  some  breach  of 
College  discipline,  he  retired  hastily  to  his  own 
quarters,  for  fear  his  dignity  might  be  somehow 
compromised. 

Was  there  ever,  I  wonder,  an  historian  so  pure 
as  not  to  have  wished  just  once  to  fob  off  on  his 
readers  just  one  bright  fable  for  effect?  I  find 
myself  sorely  tempted  to  tell  you  that  on  Zuleika, 
as  her  entertainment  drew  to  a  close,  the  spirit  of 
the  higher  thaumaturgy  descended  like  a  flame 
and  found  in  her  a  worthy  agent.  Specious 
Apollyon  whispers  to  me  "Where  would  be  the 
harm?  Tell  your  readers  that  she  cast  a  seed  on 
the  ground,  and  that  therefrom  presently  arose 
a  tamarind-tree  which  blossomed  and  bore  fruit" 
and,  withering,  vanished.  Or  say  she  conjured 
from  an  empty  basket  of  osier  a  hissing  and 
bridling  snake.  Why  not?  Your  readers  would 
be  excited,  gratified.     And  you  would  never  be 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  173 

found  out."  But  the  grave  eyes  of  Clio  are  bent 
on  me,  her  servant.  Oh  pardon,  madam:  I  did 
but  waver  for  an  instant.  It  is  not  too  late  to 
tell  my  readers  that  the  climax  of  Zuleika's  en- 
tertainment was  only  that  dismal  affair,  the  Magic 
Canister. 

It  she  took  from  the  table,  and,  holding  it  aloft, 
cried  "Now,  before  I  say  good  night,  I  want  to 
see  if  I  have  your  confidence.  But  you  mustn't 
think  this  is  the  confidence  trick!"  She  handed 
the  vessel  to  The  MacQuern,  who,  looking  like 
an  overgrown  acolyte,  bore  it  after  her  as  she 
went  again  among  the  audience.  Pausing  before 
a  man  in  the  front  row,  she  asked  him  if  he  would 
trust  her  with  his  watch.  He  held  it  out  to  her. 
"Thank  you,"  she  said,  letting  her  fingers  touch 
his  for  a  moment  before  she  dropped  it  into  the 
Magic  Canister.  From  another  man  she  bor- 
rowed a  cigarette-case,  from  another  a  neck-tie, 
from  another  a  pair  of  sleeve-links,  from  Noaks 
a  ring — one  of  those  iron  rings  which  are  sup- 
posed, rightly  or  wrongly,  to  alleviate  rheuma- 
tism. And  when  she  had  made  an  ample  selection, 
she  began  her  return-journey  to  the  table. 

On  her  way  she  saw  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall 
the  figure  of  her  forgotten  Duke.  She  saw  him, 
the  one  man  she  had  ever  loved,  also  the  first 
man  who  had  wished  definitely  to  die  for  her;  and 
she  was  touched  by  remorse.  She  had  said  she 
would  remember  him  to  her  dying  day;  and  al- 


174  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

ready.  ,  .  But  had  he  not  refused  her  the  where- 
withal to  remember  him — the  pearls  she  needed 
as  the  clou  of  her  dear  collection,  the  great  relic 
among  relics? 

"Would  you  trust  me  with  your  studs?"  she 
asked  him.  in  a  voice  that  could  be  heard  through- 
out the  quadrangle,  with  a  smile  that  was  for  him 
alone. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  He  quickly  extri- 
cated from  his  shirt-front  the  black  pearl  and  the 
pink.     Her  thanks  had  a  special  emphasis. 

The  MacQuern  placed  the  Magic  Canister  be- 
fore her  on  the  table.  She  pressed  the  outer 
sheath  down  on  it.  Then  she  inverted  it  so  that 
the  contents  fell  into  the  false  lid;  then  she 
opened  it,  looked  into  it,  and,  exclaiming  "Well, 
this  is  rather  queer!"  held  it  up  so  that  the 
audience  whose  intelligence  she  w^as  insulting 
might  see  there  was  nothing  in  it. 

"Accidents,"  she  said,  "will  happen  in  the  best- 
regulated  canisters!  But  I  think  there  is  just  a 
chance  that  I  shall  be  able  to  restore  your  prop- 
erty. Excuse  me  for  a  moment."  She  then  shut 
the  canister,  released  the  false  lid,  made  several 
passes  over  it,  opened  it,  looked  into  it  and  said 
with  a  flourish  "Now  I  can  clear  my  character!" 
Again  she  went  among  the  crowd,  attended  by 
The  MacQuern;  and  the  loans — priceless  now 
because  she  had  touched  them — were  in  due  course 
severally  restored.     When  she  took  the  canister 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  175 

from  her  acolyte,  only  the  two  studs  remained 
in  it. 

Not  since  the  night  of  her  flitting  from  the 
Gibbs'  humble  home  had  Zuleika  thieved.  Was 
she  a  back-slider?  Would  she  rob  the  Duke,  and 
his  heir-presumptive,  and  Tanville-Tankertons  yet 
unborn?  Alas,  yes.  But  what  she  now  did  was 
proof  that  she  had  qualms.  And  her  way  of  doing 
it  showed  that  for  legerdemain  she  had  after  all 
a  natural  aptitude  which,  properly  trained,  might 
have  won  for  her  an  honourable  place  in  at  least 
the  second  rank  of  contemporary  prestidigitators. 
With  a  gesture  of  her  disengaged  hand,  so  swift 
as  to  be  scarcely  visible,  she  unhooked  her  ear- 
rings and  "passed"  them  into  the  canister.  This 
she  did  as  she  turned  away  from  the  crowd,  on 
her  way  to  the  Duke.  At  the  same  moment,  in  a 
manner  technically  not  less  good,  though  morally 
deplorable,  she  withdrew  the  studs  and  "van- 
ished" them  into  her  bosom. 

Was  it  triumph,  or  shame,  or  of  both  a  little, 
that  so  flushed  her  cheeks  as  she  stood  before  the 
man  she  had  robbed?  Or  was  it  the  excitement 
of  giving  a  present  to  the  man  she  had  loved? 
Certain  it  is  that  the  nakedness  of  her  ears  gave 
a  new  look  to  her  face — a  primitive  look,  open 
and  sweetly  wild.  The  Duke  saw  the  difference, 
without  noticing  the  cause.  She  was  more  adora- 
ble than  ever.  He  blenched  and  swayed  as  in 
proximity  to  a  loveliness  beyond  endurance.    His 


176  zl;li:ika  dobson 

heart  cried  out  witliiii  hlin.  A  sudden  mist  came 
over  his  eyes. 

In  the  canister  that  she  held  out  to  him,  the 
two  pearls  rattled  like  dice. 

"Keep  them!"  he  whispered. 

"I  shall,"  she  whispered  back,  almost  shyly. 
"But  these,  these  are  for  you."  And  she  took  one 
of  his  hands,  and,  holding  it  open,  tilted  the 
canister  over  it,  and  let  drop  into  it  the  two  ear- 
rings, and  went  quickly  away. 

As  she  re-appeared  at  the  table,  the  crowd 
gave  her  a  long  ovation  of  gratitude  for  her  per- 
formance— an  ovation  all  the  more  impressive  be- 
cause it  was  solemn  and  subdued.  She  curtseyed 
again  and  again,  not  indeed  with  the  timid  sim- 
plicity of  her  first  obeisance  (so  familiar  already 
was  she  with  the  thought  of  the  crowd's  doom), 
but  rather  in  the  manner  of  a  prima  donna — chin 
up,  eyelids  down,  all  teeth  manifest,  and  hands 
from  the  bosom  flung  ecstatically  wide  asunder. 

You  know  how,  at  a  concert,  a  prima  donna 
who  has  just  sung  insists  on  shaking  hands  with 
the  accompanist,  and  dragging  him  forward,  to 
show  how  beautiful  her  nature  is,  into  the  ap- 
plause that  is  for  herself  alone.  And  your  heart, 
like  mine,  has  gone  out  to  the  wretched  victim. 
Even  so  would  you  have  felt  for  The  MacQuern 
when  Zuleika,  on  the  implied  assumption  that  half 
the  credit  was  his,  grasped  him  by  the  wrist,  and, 
continuing  to  curtsey,  would  not  release  him  till 


ZULEIKA    DOBSON  177 

the  last  echoes  of  the  clapping  had  died  away. 

The  ladles  on  the  steps  of  the  Hall  moved 
down  into  the  quadrangle,  spreading  their  resent- 
ment like  a  miasma.  The  tragic  passion  of  the 
crowd  was  merged  in  mere  awlcwardness.  There 
was  a  general  movement  towards  the  College 
gate. 

Zuleika  was  putting  her  tricks  back  into  the 
great  casket,  The  MacQuern  assisting  her.  The 
Scots,  as  I  have  said,  are  a  shy  race,  but  a  resolute 
and  a  self-seeking.  This  young  chieftain  had  not 
yet  recovered  from  what  his  heroine  had  let  him 
in  for.  But  he  did  not  lose  the  opportunity  of 
asking  her  to  lunch  with  him  to-morrow. 

"Delighted,"  she  said,  fitting  the  Demon  Egg- 
Cup  into  its  groove.  Then,  looking  up  at  him, 
"Are  you  popular?"  she  asked.  "Have  you 
many  friends?"  He  nodded.  She  said  he  must 
invite  them  all. 

This  was  a  blow  to  the  young  man,  who,  at 
once  thrifty  and  infatuate,  had  planned  a  lun- 
cheon a  deux.     "I  had  hoped — "  he  began. 

"Vainly,"  she  cut  him  short. 

There  was  a  pause.  "Whom  shall  I  invite, 
then?" 

"I  don't  know  any  of  them.  How  should  I 
have  preferences?"  She  remembered  the  Duke. 
She  looked  round  and  saw  him  still  standing  in 
the  shadow  of  the  wall.     He  came  towards  her. 


178  ZULKIKA    DOBSON 

"Of  course,"  she  said  hastily  to  her  host,  "you 
must  ask  him.'^ 

The  MacQuern  complied.  He  turned  to  the 
Duke  and  told  him  that  Miss  Dobson  had  very 
kindly  promised  to  lunch  with  him  to-morrow. 
"And,"  said  Zuleika,  "I  simply  zco«'/  unless  you 
will." 

The  Duke  looked  at  her.  Had  it  not  been  ar- 
ranged that  he  and  she  should  spend  his  last  day 
together?  Did  it  mean  nothing  that  she  had 
given  him  her  ear-rings?  Quickly  drawing  about 
him  some  remnants  of  his  tattered  pride,  he  hid 
his  wound,  and  accepted  the  invitation. 

"It  seems  a  shame,"  said  Zuleika  to  The  Mac- 
Quern,  "to  ask  you  to  bring  this  great  heavy  box 
all  the  way  back  again.     But " 

Those  last  poor  rags  of  pride  fell  away  now. 
The  Duke  threw  a  prehensile  hand  on  the  casket, 
and,  coldly  glaring  at  The  MacQuern,  pointed 
with  his  other  hand  towards  the  College  gate. 
He,  and  he  alone,  was  going  to  see  Zuleika  home. 
It  was  his  last  night  on  earth,  and  he  was  not  to 
be  trifled  with.  Such  was  the  message  of  his  eyes. 
The  Scotsman's  flashed  back  a  precisely  similar 
message. 

Men  had  fought  for  Zuleika,  but  never  in  her 
presence.  Her  eyes  dilated.  She  had  not  the 
slightest  impulse  to  throw  herself  between  the 
two  antagonists.  Indeed,  she  stepped  back,  so  as 
not  to  be  in  the  way.     A  short  sharp  fight — how 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  179 

much  better  that  Is  than  bad  blood!  She  hoped 
the  better  man  would  win;  and  (do  not  mis- 
judge her)  she  rather  hoped  this  man  was  the 
Duke.  It  occurred  to  her — a  vague  memory  of 
some  play  or  picture — that  she  ought  to  be  hold- 
ing aloft  a  candelabra  of  lit  tapers;  no,  that  was 
only  done  Indoors,  and  In  the  eighteenth  century. 
Ought  she  to  hold  a  sponge?  Idle,  these  specula- 
tions of  hers,  and  based  on  complete  Ignorance  of 
the  manners  and  customs  of  undergraduates.  The 
Duke  and  The  MacQuern  would  never  have  come 
to  blows  In  the  presence  of  a  lady.  Their  con- 
flict was  necessarily  spiritual. 

And  It  was  the  Scotsman,  Scots  though  he  was, 
who  had  to  yield.  Cowed  by  something  demoniac 
in  the  will-power  pitted  against  his,  he  found 
himself  retreating  In  the  direction  indicated  by 
the  Duke's  forefinger. 

As  he  disappeared  Into  the  porch,  Zulelka 
turned  to  the  Duke.  "You  were  splendid,"  she 
said  softly.  He  knew  that  very  well.  Does  the 
stag  In  his  hour  of  victory  need  a  diploma  from 
the  hind?  Holding  In  his  hands  the  malachite 
casket  that  was  the  symbol  of  his  triumph,  the 
Duke  smiled  dictatorlally  at  his  darling.  He 
came  near  to  thinking  of  her  as  a  chattel.  Then 
with  a  pang  he  remembered  his  abject  devotion 
to  her.  Abject  no  longer  though!  The  victory 
he  had  just  won  restored  his  manhood,  his  sense 
of  supremacy  among  his  fellows.     He  loved  this 


I  So  ZULF.IKA    DOBSOX 

woman  on  equal  terms.  She  was  transcendent? 
So  was  he,  Dorset.  To-night  the  world  had  on 
Its  moonlit  surface  two  great  ornaments — Zuleika 
and  himself.  Neither  of  the  pair  could  be  re- 
placed. Was  one  of  them  to  be  shattered?  Life 
and  love  were  good.  He  had  been  mad  to  think 
of  dying. 

No  word  was  spoken  as  they  went  together  to 
Salt  Cellar.  She  expected  him  to  talk  about  her 
conjuring  tricks.  Could  he  have  been  disap- 
pointed? She  dared  not  inquire;  for  she  had  the 
sensitiveness,  though  no  other  quality  whatsoever, 
of  the  true  artist.  She  felt  herself  aggrieved. 
She  had  half  a  mind  to  ask  him  to  give  her  back 
her  ear-rings.  And  by  the  way,  he  hadn't  yet 
thanked  her  for  them!  Well,  she  would  make 
allowances  for  a  condemned  man.  And  again 
she  remembered  the  omen  of  which  he  had  told 
her.  She  looked  at  him,  and  then  up  Into  the 
sky.  "This  same  moon,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"sees  the  battlements  of  Tankerton.  Does  she 
see  two  black  owls  there?  Does  she  hear  them 
hooting?" 

They  w^ere  in  Salt  Cellar  now.  "Mellsande !" 
she  called  up  to  her  window. 

"Hush!"  said  the  Duke,  "I  have  something  to 
say  to  you." 

"Well,  you  can  say  It  all  the  better  without 
that  great  box  in  your  hands.  I  want  my  maid  to 
carry  It  up  to  my  room  for  me."     And  again  she 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  i8i 

called  out  for  Mellsande,  and  received  no  answer. 
"I  suppose  she's  in  the  house-keeper's  room  or 
somewhere.  You  had  better  put  the  box  down 
inside  the  door.    She  can  bring  it  up  later." 

She  pushed  open  the  postern;  and  the  Duke, 
as  he  stepped  across  the  threshold,  thrilled  with 
a  romantic  awe.  Re-emerging  a  moment  later 
into  the  moonlight,  he  felt  that  she  had  been 
right  about  the  box:  it  was  fatal  to  self-expres- 
sion; and  he  was  glad  he  had  not  tried  to  speak 
on  the  way  from  the  Front  Quad:  the  soul  needs 
gesture;  and  the  Duke's  first  gesture  now  was  to 
seize  Zuleika's  hands  in  his. 

She  was  too  startled  to  move.  "Zuleika!"  he 
whispered.  She  was  too  angry  to  speak,  but  with 
a  sudden  twist  she  freed  her  wrists  and  darted 
back. 

He  laughed.  "You  are  afraid  of  me.  You  are 
afraid  to  let  me  kiss  you,  because  you  are  afraid 
of  loving  me.  This  afternoon — here — I  all  but 
kissed  you.  I  mistook  you  for  Death.  I  was 
enamoured  of  Death.  I  was  a  fool.  That  is 
what  you  are,  you  incomparable  darling:  you  are 
a  fool.  You  are  afraid  of  life.  I  am  not.  I  love 
life.     I  am  going  to  live  for  you,  do  you  hear?" 

She  stood  with  her  back  to  the  postern.  Anger 
in  her  eyes  had  given  place  to  scorn.  "You 
mean,"  she  said,  "that  you  go  back  on  your 
promise?" 

"You  will  release  me  from  it." 


1 82  ZULFIKA    DOBSON 

"Vou  mean  you  are  afraid  to  die?" 

"You  will  not  be  guilty  of  my  death.  You  love 
me." 

"Good  night,  you  miserable  coward."  She 
stepped  back  through  the  postern. 

"Don't,  Zuleika!  Miss  Dobson,  don't!  Pull 
yourself  together!  Reflect!  I  implore  you... 
You  will   repent.   .   ." 

Slowly  she  closed  the  postern  on  him. 

"You  will  repent.  I  shall  wait  here,  under  your 
window.  .  ." 

He  heard  a  bolt  rasped  into  its  socket.  He 
heard  the  retreat  of  a  light  tread  on  the  paven 
hall. 

And  he  hadn't  even  kissed  her!  That  was  his 
first  thought.     He  ground  his  heel  in  the  gravel. 

And  he  had  hurt  her  wrists!  This  was  Zu- 
leika's  first  thought,  as  she  came  into  her  bed- 
room. Yes,  there  were  two  red  marks  where 
he  had  held  her.  No  man  had  ever  dared  to  lay 
hands  on  her.  With  a  sense  of  contamination, 
she  proceeded  to  wash  her  hands  thoroughly  with 
soap  and  water.  From  time  to  time  such  words 
as  "cad"  and  "beast"  came  through  her  teeth. 

She  dried  her  hands  and  flung  herself  into  a 
chair,  arose  and  went  pacing  the  room.  So  this 
was  the  end  of  her  great  night!  What  had  she 
done  to  deserve  it?     How  had  he  dared? 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  rain  against  the  win- 
dow.    She  was  glad.     The  night  needed  cleansing. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  183 

He  had  told  her  she  was  afraid  of  life.  Life ! 
— to  have  herself  caressed  by  him;  humbly  to 
devote  herself  to  being  humbly  doted  on;  to  be 
the  slave  of  a  slave;  to  swim  in  a  private  pond 
of  treacle — ugh !  If  the  thought  weren't  so  cloy- 
ing and  degrading,  it  would  be  laughable. 

For  a  moment  her  hands  hovered  over  those 
two  golden  and  gemmed  volumes  encasing  Brad- 
shaw  and  the  A. B.C.  Guide.  To  leave  Oxford  by 
an  early  train,  leave  him  to  drown  unthanked, 
unlooked  at.  .  .  But  this  could  not  be  done  with- 
out slighting  all  those  hundreds  of  other  men.  .  . 
And  besides.  .  . 

Again  that  sound  on  the  window-pane.  This 
time  it  startled  her.  There  seemed  to  be  no  rain. 
Could  it  have  been — little  bits  of  gravel?  She 
darted  noiselessly  to  the  window,  pushed  it  open,, 
and  looked  down.  She  saw  the  upturned  face  of 
the  Duke.  She  stepped  back,  trembling  with 
fury,  staring  around  her.     Inspiration  came. 

She  thrust  her  head  out  again.  "Are  you 
there?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  yes.     I  knew  you  would  come." 

"Wait  a  moment,  wait!" 

The  water-jug  stood  where  she  had  left  it,  on 
the  floor  by  the  wash-stand.  It  was  almost  full, 
rather  heavy.  She  bore  it  steadily  to  the  window, 
and  looked  out. 

"Come  a  little  nearer!"  she  whispered. 

The   upturned   and  moonlit   face   obeyed  her. 


i84  ZULKIKA    DOBSON 

She  saw  Its  lips  forming  the  word  "Zuleika."  She 
took  careful  aim. 

Full  on  the  face  crashed  the  cascade  of  moonlit 
water,  shooting  out  on  all  sides  like  the  petals  of 
some  great  silver  anemone. 

She  laughed  shrilly  as  she  leapt  back,  letting 
the  empty  jug  roll  over  on  the  carpet.  Then  she 
stood  tense,  crouching,  her  hands  to  her  mouth, 
her  eyes  askance,  as  much  as  to  say  "Now  I've 
done  it!"  She  listened  hard,  holding  her  breath. 
In  the  stillness  of  the  night  was  a  faint  sound  of 
dripping  water,  and  presently  of  footsteps  going 
away.     Then  stillness  unbroken. 


XI 


I  SAID  that  I  was  Clio's  servant.  And  I  felt, 
when  I  said  It,  that  you  looked  at  me  dubiously, 
and  murmured  among  yourselves. 

Not  that  you  doubted  I  was  somewhat  con- 
nected with  Clio's  household.  The  lady  after 
whom  I  have  named  this  book  Is  alive,  and  well 
known  to  some  of  you  personally,  to  all  of  you  by 
repute.  Nor  had  you  finished  my  first  page  be- 
fore you  guessed  my  theme  to  be  that  episode  In 
her  life  which  caused  so  great  a  sensation  among 
the  newspaper-reading  public  a  few  years  ago. 
(It  all  seems  but  yesterday,  does  It  not?  They 
are  still  vivid  to  us,  those  head-lines.  We  have 
hardly  yet  ceased  to  be  edified  by  the  morals 
pointed  In  those  leading  articles.)  And  yet  very 
soon  you  found  me  behaving  just  like  any  novelist 
■ — reporting  the  exact  words  that  passed  between 
the  protagonists  at  private  Interviews — aye,  and 
the  exact  thoughts  and  emotions  that  were  in  their 
breasts.  Little  wonder  that  you  wondered!  Let 
me  make  things  clear  to  you. 

I  have  my  mistress'  leave  to  do  this.  At  first 
(for  reasons  which  you  will  presently  understand) 
she  demurred.  But  I  pointed  out  to  her  that  I 
185 


iS6  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

luid  been  placed  in  a  false  position,  and  that  until 
this  were  rectified  neither  she  nor  I  could  reap 
the  credit  due  to  us. 

Know,  then,  that  for  a  long  time  Clio  had  been 
thoroughly  discontented.  She  was  happy  enough, 
she  says,  when  first  she  left  the  home  of  Pierus, 
her  father,  to  become  a  Muse.  On  those  humble 
beginnings  she  looks  back  with  affection.  She 
kept  only  one  servant,  Herodotus.  The  romantic 
element  in  him  appealed  to  her.  He  died,  and 
she  had  about  her  a  large  staff  of  able  and  faithful 
servants,  whose  way  of  doing  their  work  irritated 
and  depressed  her.  To  them,  apparently,  life 
consisted  of  nothing  but  politics  and  military  op- 
erations— things  to  which  she,  being  a  woman, 
was  somewhat  indifferent.  She  was  jealous  of 
Melpomene.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  own  ser- 
vants worked  from  without  at  a  mass  of  dry 
details  which  might  as  well  be  forgotten,  Melpo- 
mene's worked  on  material  that  was  eternally 
interesting — the  souls  of  men  and  women;  and 
not  from  without,  either;  but  rather  casting 
themselves  into  those  souls  and  showing  to  us  the 
essence  of  them.  She  was  particularly  struck  by 
a  remark  of  Aristotle's,  that  tragedy  was  more 
philosophic  than  history,  inasmuch  as  it  concerned 
itself  with  what  might  be,  while  history  was  con- 
cerned with  merely  what  had  been.  This  summed 
up  for  her  what  she  had  often  felt,  but  could  not 
have  exactly  formulated.     She  saw  that  the  de- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  187 

partment  over  which  she  presided  was  at  best  an 
Inferior  one.  She  saw  that  just  what  she  had 
liked — and  rightly  liked — in  poor  dear  Herodotus 
was  just  what  prevented  him  from  being  a  good 
historian.  It  was  wrong  to  mix  up  facts  and 
fancies.  But  why  should  her  present  servants  deal 
with  only  one  little  special  set  of  the  variegated 
facts  of  life?  It  was  not  In  her  power  to  inter- 
fere. The  Nine,  by  the  terms  of  the  charter  that 
Zeus  had  granted  to  them,  were  bound  to  leave 
their  servants  an  absolutely  free  hand.  But  Clio 
could  at  least  refrain  from  reading  the  works 
which,  by  a  legal  fiction,  she  was  supposed  to 
inspire.  Once  or  twice  in  the  course  of  a  century, 
she  would  glance  Into  this  or  that  new  history 
book,  only  to  lay  it  down  with  a  shrug  of  her 
shoulders.  Some  of  the  medljeval  chronicles  she 
rather  liked.  But  when,  one  day,  Pallas  asked 
her  what  she  thought  of  "The  Decline  and  Fall 
of  the  Roman  Empire"  her  only  answer  was 
offTi?  rdia  %xii  sy  r/Sov^  ejfz  sv  r/Sovr]  tola  (For 
people  who  like  that  kind  of  thing,  that  Is  the 
kind  of  thing  they  like).  This  she  did  let  slip. 
Generally,  throughout  all  the  centuries,  she  kept 
up  a  pretence  of  thinking  history  the  greatest  of 
all  the  arts.  She  always  held  her  head  high 
among  her  Sisters.  It  was  only  on  the  sly  that 
she  was  an  omnivorous  reader  of  dramatic  and 
lyric  poetry.  She  watched  with  keen  Interest  the 
earliest   developments  of  the  prose   romance   in 


iSS  ZLLKIKA    DOBSON 

southern  Europe;  and  after  the  publication  of 
"Chirissa  Harlowe"  she  spent  practically  all  her 
time  in  reading  novels.  It  was  not  until  the 
Spring  of  the  year  1863  that  an  entirely  new  ele- 
ment forced  itself  into  her  peaceful  life.  Zeus 
fell  in  love  with  her. 

To  us,  for  whom  so  quickly  "time  doth  transfix 
the  flourish  set  on  youth,"  there  is  something 
strange,  even  a  trifle  ludicrous,  in  the  thought 
that  Zeus,  after  all  these  years.  Is  still  at  the  beck 
and  call  of  his  passions.  And  it  seems  anyhow 
lamentable  that  he  has  not  yet  gained  self-confi- 
dence enough  to  appear  in  his  own  person  to  the 
lady  of  his  choice,  and  is  still  at  pains  to  trans- 
form himself  into  whatever  object  he  deems  like- 
liest to  please  her.  To  Clio,  suddenly  from 
Olympus,  he  flashed  down  in  the  semblance  of 
Kinglake's  "Invasion  of  the  Crimea"  (four  vols., 
large  8vo,  half-calf).  She  saw  through  his  dis- 
guise immediately,  and,  with  great  courage  and 
independence,  bade  him  begone.  Rebuffed,  he 
was  not  deflected.  Indeed  it  would  seem  that 
Clio's  high  spirit  did  but  sharpen  his  desire. 
Hardly  a  day  passed  but  he  appeared  in  what  he 
hoped  would  be  the  irresistible  form — a  recently 
discovered  fragment  of  Polybius,  an  advance  copy 
of  the  forthcoming  issue  of  "The  Historical  Re- 
view," the  note-book  of  Professor  Carl  Vort- 
schlaffen.  .  .  One  day,  all-prying  Hermes  told 
him  of  Clio's  secret  addiction  to  novel-reading. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  189 

Thenceforth,  year  in,  year  out,  it  was  in  the  form 
of  fiction  that  Zeus  wooed  her.  The  sole  result 
was  that  she  grew  sick  of  the  sight  of  novels, 
and  found  a  perverse  pleasure  in  reading  history. 
These  dry  details  of  what  had  actually  happened 
were  a  relief,  she  told  herself,  from  all  that  make- 
believe. 

One  Sunday  afternoon — the  day  before  that 
very  Monday  on  which  this  narrative  opens — it 
occurred  to  her  how  fine  a  thing  history  might  be 
if  the  historian  had  the  novelist's  privileges.  Sup- 
pose he  could  be  present  at  every  scene  which  he 
was  going  to  describe,  a  presence  invisible  and 
inevitable,  and  equipped  with  power  to  see  into 
the  breasts  of  all  the  persons  whose  actions  he  set 
himself  to  watch.  .  . 

While  the  Muse  was  thus  musing,  Zeus  (dis- 
guised as  Miss  Annie  S.  Swan's  latest  work)  paid 
his  usual  visit.  She  let  her  eyes  rest  on  him. 
Hither  and  thither  she  divided  her  swift  mind,  and 
addressed  him  in  winged  words.  "Zeus,  father 
of  gods  and  men,  cloud-compeller,  what  wouldst 
thou  of  me?  But  first  will  I  say  what  I  would  of 
thee";  and  she  besought  him  to  extend  to  the 
writers  of  history  such  privileges  as  are  granted 
to  novelists.  His  whole  manner  had  changed. 
He  listened  to  her  with  the  massive  gravity  of  a 
ruler  who  never  yet  has  allowed  private  influence 
to  obscure  his  judgment.  He  was  silent  for  some 
time  after  her  appeal.    Then,  in  a  voice  of  thun- 


I90  ZULKIKA    DOBSON 

dcr,  which  iikkIc  quake  the  slopes  ot  Parnassus, 
he  gave  his  answer.  He  admitted  the  disabiHties 
under  which  historians  laboured.  But  the  novel- 
ists— were  they  not  equally  handicapped?  They 
had  to  treat  of  persons  who  never  existed,  events 
which  never  were.  Only  by  the  privilege  of  being 
in  the  thick  of  those  events,  and  in  the  very  bowels 
of  those  persons,  could  they  hope  to  hold  the 
reader's  attention.  If  similar  privileges  were 
granted  to  the  historian,  the  demand  for  novels 
would  cease  forthwith,  and  many  thousand  of 
hard-working,  deserving  men  and  women  would 
be  thrown  out  of  employment.  In  fact,  Clio  had 
asked  him  an  impossible  favour.  But  he  might — 
he  said  he  conceivably  might — be  induced  to  let 
her  have  her  way  just  once.  In  that  event,  all  she 
would  have  to  do  was  to  keep  her  eye  on  the 
world's  surface,  and  then,  so  soon  as  she  had 
reason  to  think  that  somewhere  was  impending 
something  of  great  import,  to  choose  an  historian. 
On  him,  straightway,  Zeus  would  confer  invisi- 
bility, inevitability,  and  psychic  penetration,  with 
a  flawless  memory  thrown  in. 

On  the  following  afternoon,  Clio's  roving  eye 
saw  Zuleika  stepping  from  the  Paddlngton  plat- 
form into  the  Oxford  train.  A  few  moments  later 
I  found  myself  suddenly  on  Parnassus.  In  hurried 
words  Clio  told  me  how  I  came  there,  and  what  I 
had  to  do.  She  said  she  had  selected  me  because 
she  knew  me  to  be  honest,  sober,  and  capable, 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  191 

and  no  stranger  to  Oxford.  Another  moment, 
and  I  was  at  the  throne  of  Zeus.  With  a  majesty 
of  gesture  which  I  shall  never  forget,  he  stretched 
his  hand  over  me,  and  I  was  indued  with  the 
promised  gifts.  And  then,  lo !  I  was  on  the  plat- 
form of  Oxford  station.  The  train  was  not  due 
for  another  hour.  But  the  time  passed  pleasantly 
enough. 

It  was  fun  to  float  all  unseen,  to  float  all  un- 
hampered by  any  corporeal  nonsense,  up  and 
down  the  platform.  It  was  fun  to  watch  the  in- 
most thoughts  of  the  station-master,  of  the  por- 
ters, of  the  young  person  at  the  buffet.  But  of 
course  I  did  not  let  the  holiday-mood  master  me. 
I  realised  the  seriousness  of  my  mission.  I  must 
concentrate  myself  on  the  matter  in  hand:  Miss 
Dobson's  visit.  What  was  going  to  happen? 
Prescience  was  no  part  of  my  outfit.  From  what 
I  knew  about  Miss  Dobson,  I  deduced  that  she 
would  be  a  great  success.  That  was  all.  Had  I 
had  the  instinct  that  was  given  to  those  Emperors 
in  stone,  and  even  to  the  dog  Corker,  I  should 
have  begged  Clio  to  send  in  my  stead  some  man 
of  stronger  nerve.  She  had  charged  me  to  be 
calmly  vigilant,  scrupulously  fair.  I  could  have 
been  neither,  had  I  from  the  outset  foreseen  all. 
Only  because  the  immediate  future  was  broken  to 
me  by  degrees,  first  as  a  set  of  possibilities,  then 
as  a  set  of  probabilities  that  yet  might  not  come 
off,  was  I  able  to  fulfil  the  trust  imposed  on  me. 


192  ZULF.IKA    DOBSON 

Even  so,  It  was  hard.  I  liad  always  accepted  the 
doctrine  that  to  understand  all  is  to  forgive  all. 
Thanks  to  Zeus,  I  understood  all  about  Miss 
Dobson,  and  yet  there  were  moments  when  she 
repelled  me — moments  when  I  wished  to  see  her 
neither  from  without  nor  from  within.  So  soon 
as  the  Duke  of  Dorset  met  her  on  the  Monday 
night,  I  felt  I  was  in  duty  bound  to  keep  him 
under  constant  surveillance.  Yet  there  were  mo- 
ments when  I  was  so  sorry  for  him  that  I  deemed 
myself  a  brute  for  shadowing  him. 

Ever  since  I  can  remember,  I  have  been  beset 
by  a  recurring  doubt  as  to  whether  I  be  or  be  not 
quite  a  gentleman.  I  have  never  attempted  to 
define  that  term:  I  have  but  feverishly  wondered 
whether  in  its  usual  acceptation  (whatever  that 
is)  it  be  strictly  applicable  to  myself.  Many  peo- 
ple hold  that  the  qualities  connoted  by  it  are 
primarily  moral — a  kind  heart,  honourable  con- 
duct, and  so  forth.  On  Clio's  mission,  I  found 
honour  and  kindness  tugging  me  in  precisely  op- 
posite directions.  In  so  far  as  honour  tugged  the 
harder,  was  I  the  more  or  the  less  gentlemanly? 
But  the  test  is  not  a  fair  one.  Curiosity  tugged 
on  the  side  of  honour.  This  goes  to  prove  me  a 
cad?  Oh,  set  against  it  the  fact  that  I  did  at  one 
point  betray  Clio's  trust.  When  Miss  Dobson 
had  done  the  deed  recorded  at  the  close  of  the 
foregoing  chapter,  I  gave  the  Duke  of  Dorset  an 
hour's  grace. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  193 

I  could  have  done  no  less.  In  the  lives  of  most 
of  us  is  some  one  thing  that  we  would  not  after 
the  lapse  of  how  many  years  soever  confess  to 
our  most  understanding  friend;  the  thing  that 
does  not  bear  thinking  of;  the  one  thing  to  be 
forgotten;  the  unforgettable  thing.  Not  the  com- 
mission of  some  great  crime:  this  can  be  atoned 
for  by  great  penances;  and  the  very  enormity  of 
it  has  a  dark  grandeur.  Maybe,  some  little  deadly 
act  of  meanness,  some  hole-and-corner  treachery? 
But  what  a  man  has  once  willed  to  do,  his  will 
helps  him  to  forget.  The  unforgettable  thing  in 
his  life  is  usually  not  a  thing  he  has  done  or  left 
undone,  but  a  thing  done  to  him — some  insolence 
or  cruelty  for  which  he  could  not,  or  did  not, 
avenge  himself.  This  it  is  that  often  comes  back 
to  him,  years  after,  in  his  dreams,  and  thrusts 
itself  suddenly  into  his  waking  thoughts,  so  that 
he  clenches  his  hands,  and  shakes  his  head,  and 
hums  a  tune  loudly — anything  to  beat  it  off.  In 
the  very  hour  when  first  befell  him  that  odious 
humiliation,  would  you  have  spied  on  him?  I 
gave  the  Duke  of  Dorset  an  hour's  grace. 

What  were  his  thoughts  in  that  interval,  what 
words,  if  any,  he  uttered  to  the  night,  never  will 
be  known.  For  this,  Clio  has  abused  me  in  lan- 
guage less  befitting  a  Muse  than  a  fishwife.  I 
do  not  care.  I  would  rather  be  chidden  by  Clio 
than  by  my  own  sense  of  delicacy,  any  day. 


XII 


Not  less  averse  than  from  dogging  the  Duke  was 
I  from  remaining  another  instant  in  the  presence 
of  Miss  Dobson.  There  seemed  to  be  no  possible 
excuse  for  her.  This  time  she  had  gone  too  far. 
She  was  outrageous.  As  soon  as  the  Duicc  had 
had  time  to  get  clear  away,  I  floated  out  into  the 
night. 

I  may  have  consciously  reasoned  that  the  best 
way  to  forget  the  present  was  in  the  revival  of 
memories.  Or  I  may  have  been  driven  by  a  mere 
homing  instinct.  Anyhow,  it  was  in  the  direction 
of  my  old  College  that  I  went.  Midnight  was 
tolling  as  I  floated  in  through  the  shut  grim  gate 
at  which  I  had  so  often  stood  knocking  for  ad- 
mission. 

The  man  who  now  occupied  my  room  had 
sported  his  oak — my  oak.  I  read  the  name  on 
the  visiting-card  attached  thereto — E.  J.  Crad- 
dock — and  went  in. 

E.  J.  Craddock,  interloper,  was  sitting  at  my 
table,  with  elbows  squared  and  head  on  one  side, 
in  the  act  of  literary  composition.  The  oars  and 
caps  on  my  walls  betokened  him  a  rowing-man. 
Indeed,  I  recognised  his  somewhat  heavy  face  as 

194 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  195 

that  of  the  man  whom,  from  the  Judas  barge  this 
afternoon,  I  had  seen  rowing  "stroke"  in  my 
College  Eight. 

He  ought,  therefore,  to  have  been  in  bed  and 
asleep  two  hours  ago.  And  the  offence  of  his 
vigil  was  aggravated  by  a  large  tumbler  that  stood 
in  front  of  him,  containing  whisky  and  soda. 
From  this  he  took  a  deep  draught.  Then  he  read 
over  what  he  had  written.  I  did  not  care  to  peer 
over  his  shoulder  at  MS.  which,  though  written 
in  my  room,  was  not  intended  for  my  eyes.  But 
the  writer's  brain  was  open  to  me;  and  he  had 
written  "I,  the  undersigned  Edward  Joseph 
Craddock,  do  hereby  leave  and  bequeath  all  my 
personal  and  other  property  to  Zuleika  Dobson, 
spinster.     This  is  my  last  will  and  testament." 

He  gnawed  his  pen,  and  presently  altered  the 
"hereby  leave"  to  "hereby  and  herewith  leave." 
Fool! 

I  thereby  and  therewith  left  him.  As  I  emerged 
through  the  floor  of  the  room  above — through  the 
very  carpet  that  had  so  often  been  steeped  in  wine, 
and  encrusted  with  smithereens  of  glass,  in  the 
brave  old  days  of  a  well-remembered  occupant — I 
found  two  men,  both  of  them  evidently  reading- 
men.  One  of  them  was  pacing  round  the  room. 
"Do  you  know,"  he  was  saying,  "what  she  re- 
minded me  of,  all  the  time?  Those  words — 
aren't  they  in  the  Song  of  Solomon? — 'fair  as  the 
moon,  clear  as  the  sun,  and.  .  .and.  .  .'  " 


196  ZUIJ  IKA    DOBSON 

"  'Terrible  as  an  army  with  banners,'  "  supplied 
his  host — rather  testily,  for  he  was  writing  a  let- 
ter. It  began  "My  dear  Father.  By  the  time  you 
receive  this  I  shall  have  taken  a  step  which.  .  ." 

Clearly  it  was  vain  to  seek  distraction  in  my 
old  College.  I  floated  out  into  the  untenanted 
meadow^s.  Over  them  was  the  usual  coverlet  of 
white  vapour,  trailed  from  the  Isis  right  up  to 
Merton  Wall.  The  scent  of  these  meadows'  mois- 
ture is  the  scent  of  Oxford.  Even  in  hottest  noon, 
one  feels  that  the  sun  has  not  dried  them.  Always 
there  is  moisture  drifting  across  them,  drifting 
into  the  Colleges.  It,  one  suspects,  must  have 
had  much  to  do  with  the  evocation  of  what  is 
called  the  Oxford  spirit — that  gentlest  spirit,  so 
lingering  and  searching,  so  dear  to  them  who  as 
youths  were  brought  into  ken  of  it,  so  exasper- 
ating to  them  who  were  not.  Yes,  certainly,  it  is 
this  mild,  miasmal  air,  not  less  than  the  grey 
beauty  and  gravity  of  the  buildings,  that  has 
helped  Oxford  to  produce,  and  foster  eternally, 
her  peculiar  race  of  artist-scholars,  scholar-artists. 
The  undergraduate,  in  his  brief  periods  of  resi- 
dence, is  too  buoyant  to  be  mastered  by  the  spirit 
of  the  place.  He  does  but  salute  It,  and  catch  the 
manner.  It  Is  on  him  who  stays  to  spend  his 
maturity  here  that  the  spirit  will  In  Its  fulness 
gradually  descend.  The  buildings  and  their  tra- 
ditions keep  astir  In  his  mind  whatsoever  Is  gra- 
cious; the  climate,  enfolding  and  enfeebling  him, 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  197 

lulling  him,  keeps  him  careless  of  the  sharp,  harsh, 
exigent  realities  of  the  outer  world.  Careless? 
Not  utterly.  These  realities  may  be  seen  by  him. 
He  may  study  them,  be  amused  or  touched  by 
them.  But  they  cannot  fire  him.  Oxford  is  too 
damp  for  that.  The  "movements"  made  there 
have  been  no  more  than  protests  against  the  mo- 
bility of  others.  They  have  been  without  the 
dynamic  quality  implied  in  their  name.  They  have 
been  no  more  than  the  sighs  of  men  gazing  at 
what  other  men  had  left  behind  them;  faint,  im- 
possible appeals  to  the  god  of  retrogression,  ut- 
tered for  their  own  sake  and  ritual,  rather  than 
with  any  intent  that  they  should  be  heard.  Ox- 
ford, that  lotus-land,  saps  the  will-power,  the 
power  of  action.  But,  In  doing  so,  it  clarifies  the 
mind,  makes  larger  the  vision,  gives,  above  all, 
that  playful  and  caressing  suavity  of  manner 
which  comes  of  a  conviction  that  nothing  matters, 
except  Ideas,  and  that  not  even  Ideas  are  worth 
dying  for.  Inasmuch  as  the  ghosts  of  them  slain 
seem  worthy  of  yet  more  piously  elaborate 
homage  than  can  be  given  to  them  In  their  hey- 
day. If  the  Colleges  could  be  transferred  to  the 
dry  and  bracing  top  of  some  hill,  doubtless  they 
would  be  more  evidently  useful  to  the  nation.  But 
let  us  be  glad  there  is  no  engineer  or  enchanter  to 
compass  that  task.  Egomet,  I  would  liefer  have 
the  rest  of  England  subside  Into  the  sea  than  have 
Oxford  set  on  a  salubrious  level.     For  there  Is 


198  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

nothing  in  England  to  be  matched  witli  what  lurks 
in  the  vapours  of  these  meadows,  and  in  the  shad- 
ows of  these  spires — that  mysterious,  inenubilahle 
spirit,  spirit  of  Oxford.  Oxford!  The  very  sight 
of  the  word  printed,  or  sound  of  it  spoken,  is 
fraught  for  me  with  most  actual  magic. 

And  on  that  moonlit  night  when  I  floated 
among  the  vapours  of  these  meadows,  myself  less 
than  a  vapour,  I  knew  and  loved  Oxford  as  never 
before,  as  never  since.  Yonder,  in  the  Colleges, 
was  the  fume  and  fret  of  tragedy — Love  as 
Death's  decoy,  and  Youth  following  her.  What 
then?  Not  Oxford  was  menaced.  Come  what 
might,  not  a  stone  of  Oxford's  walls  would  be 
loosened,  nor  a  wreath  of  her  vapours  be  undone, 
nor  lost  a  breath  of  her  sacred  spirit. 

I  floated  up  into  the  higher,  drier  air,  that  I 
might,  for  once,  see  the  total  body  of  that  spirit. 

There  lay  Oxford  far  beneath  me,  like  a  map  in 
grey  and  black  and  silver.  All  that  I  had  known 
only  as  great  single  things  I  saw  now  outspread 
in  apposition,  and  tiny;  tiny  symbols,  as  it  were, 
of  themselves,  greatly  symbolising  their  oneness. 
There  they  lay,  these  multitudinous  and  disparate 
quadrangles,  all  their  rivalries  merged  in  the 
making  of  a  great  catholic  pattern.  And  the  roofs 
of  the  buildings  around  them  seemed  level  with 
their  lawns.  No  higher  the  roofs  of  the  very 
towers.  Up  from  their  tiny  segment  of  the  earth's 
spinning  surface  they  stood  negligible  beneath  in- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  199 

finity.  And  new,  too,  quite  new,  in  eternity; 
transient  upstarts.  I  saw  Oxford  as  a  place  that 
had  no  more  past  and  no  more  future  than  a 
mining-camp.  I  smiled  down.  O  hoary  and  un- 
assailable mushroom!.  .  .  But  if  a  man  carry  his 
sense  of  proportion  far  enough,  lo !  he  is  back  at 
the  point  from  which  he  started.  He  knows  that 
eternity,  as  conceived  by  him,  is  but  an  instant  in 
eternity,  and  infinity  but  a  speck  in  Infinity.  How 
should  they  belittle  the  things  near  to  him?.  .  . 
Oxford  was  venerable  and  magical,  after  all,  and 
enduring.  Aye,  and  not  because  she  would  endure 
was  it  the  less  lamentable  that  the  young  lives 
within  her  walls  were  like  to  be  taken.  My 
equanimity  was  gone;  and  a  tear  fell  on  Oxford. 
And  then,  as  though  Oxford  herself  were 
speaking  up  to  me,  the  air  vibrated  with  a  sweet 
noise  of  music.  It  was  the  hour  of  one;  the  end 
of  the  Duke's  hour  of  grace.  Through  the  silvery 
tangle  of  sounds  from  other  clocks  I  floated 
quickly  down  to  the  Broad. 


XIII 

I  HAD  on  the  way  a  horrible  apprehension.  What 
if  the  Duke,  in  his  agony,  had  taken  the  one 
means  to  forgetfulness?  His  room,  I  could  see, 
was  lit  up;  but  a  man  does  not  necessarily  choose 
to  die  in  the  dark.  I  hovered,  afraid,  over  the 
dome  of  the  Sheldonian.  I  saw  that  the  window 
of  the  room  above  the  Duke's  was  also  lit  up. 
And  there  was  no  reason  at  all  to  doubt  the  sur- 
vival of  Noaks.  Perhaps  the  sight  of  him  would 
hearten  me. 

I  was  wrong.  The  sight  of  Noaks  in  his  room 
was  as  dismal  a  thing  as  could  be.  With  his  chin 
sunk  on  his  breast,  he  sat  there,  on  a  rickety 
chair,  staring  up  at  the  mantel-piece.  This  he 
had  decked  out  as  a  sort  of  shrine.  In  the  centre, 
aloft  on  an  inverted  tin  that  had  contained  Aber- 
nethy  biscuits,  stood  a  blue  plush  frame,  with  an 
inner  rim  of  brass,  several  sizes  too  big  for  the 
picture-postcard  installed  in  it.  Zuleika's  image 
gazed  forth  with  a  smile  that  was  obviously  not 
intended  for  the  humble  worshipper  at  this  ex- 
ecrable shrine.  On  either  side  of  her  stood  a 
small  vase,  one  holding  some  geraniums,  the  other 

200 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  201 

some  mignonette.  And  just  beneath  her  was 
placed  that  iron  ring  which,  rightly  or  wrongly, 
Noaks  supposed  to  alleviate  rheumatism — that 
same  iron  ring  which,  by  her  touch  to-night,  had 
been  charged  for  him  with  a  yet  deeper  magic, 
insomuch  that  he  dared  no  longer  wear  it,  and 
had  set  it  before  her  as  an  oblation. 

Yet,  for  all  his  humility,  he  was  possessed  by 
a  spirit  of  egoism  that  repelled  me.  While  he  sat 
peering  over  his  spectacles  at  the  beauteous  image, 
he  said  again  and  again  to  himself,  in  a  hollow 
voice,  "I  am  so  young  to  die."  Every  time  he 
said  this,  two  large,  pear-shaped  tears  emerged 
from  behind  his  spectacles,  and  found  their  way 
to  his  waistcoat.  It  did  not  seem  to  strike  him 
that  quite  half  of  the  undergraduates  who  con- 
templated death — and  contemplated  it  in  a  fear- 
less, wholesome,  manly  fashion — were  his  juniors. 
It  seemed  to  seem  to  him  that  his  own  death, 
even  though  all  those  other  far  brighter  and  more 
promising  lives  than  his  were  to  be  sacrificed,  was 
a  thing  to  bother  about.  Well,  if  he  did  not  want 
to  die,  why  could  he  not  have,  at  least,  the  courage 
of  his  cowardice?  The  world  would  not  cease  to 
revolve  because  Noaks  still  clung  to  its  surface. 
For  me  the  whole  tragedy  was  cheapened  by  his 
participation  in  it.  I  was  fain  to  leave  him.  His 
squint,  his  short  legs  dangling  towards  the  floor, 
his  tear-sodden  waistcoat,  and  his  refrain  "I  am 
so  young  to  die,"  were  beyond  measure  exasperat- 


202  ZULKIKA    DOl^SON 

ing.  Vet  I  hesitated  to  pass  into  the  room  be- 
neath, tor  fear  of  what  I  might  see  there. 

How  long  I  might  have  paltered,  had  no  sound 
come  from  that  room,  I  know  not.  But  a  sound 
came,  sharp  and  sudden  in  the  night,  instantly 
reassuring.  I  swept  down  into  the  presence  of  the 
Duke. 

He  stood  with  his  head  flung  back  and  his  arms 
folded,  gorgeous  in  a  dressing-gown  of  crimson 
brocade.  In  animation  of  pride  and  pomp,  he 
looked  less  like  a  mortal  man  than  like  a  figure 
from  some  great  biblical  group  by  Paul  Veronese. 

And  this  was  he  whom  I  had  presumed  to  pity! 
And  this  was  he  whom  I  had  half  expected  to 
find  dead. 

His  face,  usually  pale,  was  now  red;  and  his 
hair,  which  no  eye  had  ever  yet  seen  disordered, 
stood  up  in  a  glistening  shock.  These  two  changes 
in  him  intensified  the  effect  of  vitality.  One  of 
them,  however,  vanished  as  I  watched  it.  The 
Duke's  face  resumed  its  pallor.  I  realised  then 
that  he  had  but  blushed;  and  I  realised,  simul- 
taneously, that  what  had  called  that  blush  to  his 
cheek  was  what  had  also  been  the  signal  to  me 
that  he  was  alive.  His  blush  had  been  a  pendant 
to  his  sneeze.  And  his  sneeze  had  been  a  pendant 
to  that  outrage  which  he  had  been  striving  to 
forget.     He  had  caught  cold. 

He  had  caught  cold.  In  the  hour  of  his  soul's 
bitter  need,  his  body  had  been  suborned  against 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  203 

him.  Base!  Had  he  not  stripped  his  body  of  Its 
wet  vesture?  Had  he  not  vigorously  dried  his 
hair,  and  robed  himself  In  crimson,  and  struck 
in  solitude  such  attitudes  as  were  most  congruous 
with  his  high  spirit  and  high  rank?  He  had  set 
himself  to  crush  remembrance  of  that  by  which 
through  his  body  his  soul  had  been  assailed.  And 
well  had  he  known  that  in  this  conflict  a  giant 
demon  was  his  antagonist.  But  that  his  own  body 
would  play  traitor — no,  this  he  had  not  foreseen. 
This  was  too  base  a  thing  to  be  foreseen. 

He  stood  quite  still,  a  figure  orgulous  and 
splendent.  And  it  seemed  as  though  the  hot 
night,  too,  stood  still,  to  watch  him.  In  awe, 
through  the  open  lattices  of  his  window,  breath- 
lessly. But  to  me,  equipped  to  see  beneath  the 
surface,  he  was  piteous,  piteous  In  ratio  to  the 
pretension  of  his  aspect.  Had  he  crouched  down 
and  sobbed,  I  should  have  been  as  much  relieved 
as  he.     But  he  stood  seignorial  and  aquiline. 

Painless,  by  comparison  with  this  conflict  In 
him,  seemed  the  conflict  that  had  raged  in  him 
yesternight.  Then,  It  had  been  his  dandihood 
against  his  passion  for  Zuleika.  What  mattered 
the  Issue?  Whichever  won,  the  victory  were 
sweet.  And  of  this  he  had  all  the  while  been 
subconscious,  gallantly  though  he  fought  for  his 
pride  of  dandihood.  To-night  in  the  battle  be- 
tween pride  and  memory,  he  knew  from  the  out- 
set that  pride's  was  but  a  forlorn  hope,  and  that 


204  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

memory  would  be  barbarous  In  her  triumph.  Not 
winning  to  oblivion,  he  must  hate  with  a  fathom- 
less hatred.  Of  all  the  emotions,  hatred  is  the 
most  excruciating.  Of  all  the  objects  of  hatred, 
a  woman  once  loved  is  the  most  hateful.  Of  all 
deaths,  the  bitterest  that  can  befall  a  man  is  that 
he  lay  down  his  life  to  flatter  the  woman  he  deems 
vilest  of  her  sex. 

Such  was  the  death  that  the  Duke  of  Dorset 
saw  confronting  him.  Most  men,  when  they  are 
at  war  with  the  past,  have  the  future  as  ally. 
Looking  steadfastly  forward,  they  can  forget. 
The  Duke's  future  was  openly  in  league  with  his 
past.  For  him,  prospect  was  memory.  All  that 
there  was  for  him  of  future  was  the  death  to 
which  his  honour  was  pledged.  To  envisage  that 
was  to.  .  .no,  he  would  not  envisage  it!  With  a 
passionate  effort  he  hypnotised  himself  to  think 
of  nothing  at  all.  His  brain,  into  which,  by  the 
power  Zeus  gave  me,  I  was  gazing,  became  a 
perfect  vacuum,  insulated  by  the  will.  It  was 
the  kind  of  experiment  which  scientists  call  "beau- 
tiful."    And  yes,  beautiful  it  was. 

But  not  in  the  eyes  of  Nature.  She  abhors  a 
vacuum.  Seeing  the  enormous  odds  against  which 
the  Duke  was  fighting,  she  might  well  have  stood 
aside.  But  she  has  no  sense  of  sport  whatsoever. 
She  stepped  in. 

At  first  I  did  not  realise  what  was  happening. 
I  saw  the  Duke's  eyes  contract,  and  the  muscles 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  205 

of  his  mouth  drawn  down,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
a  tense  upward  movement  of  his  whole  body. 
Then,  suddenly,  the  strain  undone :  a  downward 
dart  of  the  head,  a  loud  percussion.  Thrice  the 
Duke  sneezed,  with  a  sound  that  was  as  the 
bursting  of  the  dams  of  body  and  soul  together; 
then  sneezed  again. 

Now  was  his  will  broken.  He  capitulated.  In 
rushed  shame  and  horror  and  hatred,  pell-mell,  to 
ravage  him. 

What  care  now,  what  use,  for  deportment?  He 
walked  coweringly  round  and  round  his  room, 
with  frantic  gestures,  with  head  bowed.  He 
shuffled  and  slunk.  His  dressing-gown  had  the 
look  of  a  gabardine. 

Shame  and  horror  and  hatred  went  slashing 
and  hewing  throughout  the  fallen  citadel.  At 
length,  exhausted,  he  flung  himself  down  on  the 
window-seat  and  leaned  out  into  the  night,  pant- 
ing. The  air  was  full  of  thunder.  He  clutched 
at  his  throat.  From  the  depths  of  the  black 
caverns  beneath  their  brows  the  eyes  of  the  un- 
sleeping Emperors  watched  him. 

He  had  gone  through  much  in  the  day  that  was 
past.  He  had  loved  and  lost.  He  had  striven  to 
recapture,  and  had  failed.  In  a  strange  resolve 
he  had  found  serenity  and  joy.  He  had  been  at 
the  point  of  death,  and  had  been  saved.  He  had 
seen  that  his  beloved  was  worthless,  and  he  had 
not  cared.     He   had   fought   for   her,   and  con- 


2o6  ZULETKA    DOBSON 

t]uered;  and  had  pled  with  her,  and — all  these 
memories  were  loathsome  by  reason  of  that  final 
thing  which  had  all  the  while  lain  in  wait  for  him. 

lie  looked  back  and  saw  himself  as  he  had  been 
at  a  score  of  crucial  moments  in  the  day — always 
in  the  shadow  of  that  final  thing.  He  saw  himself 
as  he  had  been  on  the  playing-fields  of  Eton; 
aye!  and  in  the  arms  of  his  nurse,  to  and  fro  on 
the  terrace  of  Tankerton — always  in  the  shadow 
of  that  final  thing,  always  piteous  and  ludicrous, 
doomed.  Thank  heaven  the  future  was  unknow- 
able? It  wasn't,  now\  To-morrow — to-day — he 
must  die  for  that  accursed  fiend  of  a  woman — 
the  woman  with  the  hyena  laugh. 

What  to  do  meanwhile?  Impossible  to  sleep. 
He  felt  in  his  body  the  strain  of  his  quick  se- 
quence of  spiritual  adventures.  He  was  dog-tired. 
But  his  brain  was  furiously  out  of  hand:  no  stop- 
ping it.  And  the  night  was  stifling.  And  all  the 
while,  in  the  dead  silence,  as  though  his  soul  had 
ears,  there  was  a  sound.  It  was  a  very  faint,  un- 
earthly sound,  and  seemed  to  come  from  nowhere, 
yet  to  have  a  meaning.  He  feared  he  was  rather 
over-wrought. 

He  must  express  himself.  That  would  soothe 
him.  Ever  since  childhood  he  had  had,  from  time 
to  time,  the  impulse  to  set  down  in  writing  his 
thoughts  or  his  moods.  In  such  exercises  he  had 
found  for  his  self-consciousness  the  vent  which 
natures  less  reserved  than  his  find  in  casual  talk 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  207 

with  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry,  with  Jane,  Susan, 
and  Liz.  Aloof  from  either  of  these  triads,  he 
had  in  his  first  term  at  Eton  taken  to  himself  as 
confidant,  and  retained  ever  since,  a  great  quarto 
volume,  bound  in  red  morocco  and  stamped  with 
his  coronet  and  cypher.  It  was  herein,  year  by 
year,  that  his  soul  spread  itself. 

He  wrote  mostly  in  English  prose;  but  other 
modes  were  not  infrequent.  Whenever  he  was 
abroad,  it  was  his  courteous  habit  to  write  in  the 
language  of  the  country  where  he  was  residing — 
French,  when  he  was  in  his  house  on  the  Champs 
Elysees;  Italian,  when  he  was  in  his  villa  at  Baiae; 
and  so  on.  When  he  was  in  his  own  country 
he  felt  himself  free  to  deviate  sometimes  from  the 
vernacular  into  whatever  language  were  aptest  to 
his  frame  of  mind.  In  his  sterner  moods  he  grav- 
itated to  Latin,  and  wrought  the  noble  iron  of 
that  language  to  effects  that  were,  if  anything,  a 
trifle  over-impressive.  He  found  for  his  highest 
flights  of  contemplation  a  handy  vehicle  in  San- 
scrit. In  hours  of  mere  joy  it  was  Greek  poetry 
that  flov/ed  likeliest  from  his  pen;  and  he  had  a 
special  fondness  for  the  metre  of  Alcaeus. 

And  now,  too,  in  his  darkest  hour,  it  was  Greek 
that  surged  in  him — iambics  of  thunderous  wrath 
such  as  those  which  are  volleyed  by  Prometheus. 
But  as  he  sat  down  to  his  writing-table,  and  un- 
locked the  dear  old  album,  and  dipped  his  pen 
in  the  ink,  a  great  calm  fell  on  him.    The  iambics 


2o8  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

in  him  began  to  brcatlic  such  sweetness  as  is  on 
the  lips  of  Alcestis  going  to  her  doom.  But,  just 
as  he  set  pen  to  paper,  his  hand  faltered,  and  he 
sprang  up,  victim  of  another  and  yet  more  violent 
fit  of   sneezing. 

Disbuskined,  dangerous.  The  spirit  of  Juvenal 
woke  in  him.  He  would  flay.  He  would  make 
Woman  (as  he  called  Zuleika)  writhe.  Latin 
hexameters,  of  course.  An  epistle  to  his  heir  pre- 
sumptive. .  .     "Vae  tibi,"  he  began, 

"Vae  tibi,  vae  misero,  nisi  circumspexeris  artes 
Femineas,  nam  nulla  salus  quin  femina  possit 
Tradere,  nulla  fides  quin" 

"Quin,"  he  repeated.  In  writing  soliloquies, 
his  trouble  was  to  curb  inspiration.  The  thought 
that  he  was  addressing  his  heir-presumptive — now 
heir-only-too-apparent — gave  him  pause.  Nor, 
he  reflected,  was  he  addressing  this  brute  only,  but 
a  huge  posthumous  audience.  These  hexameters 
would  be  sure  to  appear  in  the  "authorised"  bi- 
ography. "A  melancholy  Interest  attaches  to  the 
following  lines,  written,  it  would  seem,  on  the 
very  eve  of".  .  .  He  winced.  Was  it  really  pos- 
sible, and  no  dream,  that  he  was  to  die  to-morrow 
— to-day? 

Even  you,  unassuming  reader,  go  about  with 
a  vague  notion  that  in  your  case,  somehow,  the 
ultimate  demand  of  nature  will  be  waived.  The 
Duke,  until  he  conceived  his  sudden  desire  to  die. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  209 

had  deemed  himself  certainly  exempt.  And  now, 
as  he  sat  staring  at  his  window,  he  saw  in  the 
paling  of  the  night  the  presage  of  the  dawn  of  his 
own  last  day.  Sometimes  (orphaned  though  he 
was  in  early  childhood)  he  had  even  found  it  hard 
to  believe  there  was  no  exemption  for  those  to 
whom  he  stood  in  any  personal  relation.  He 
remembered  how,  soon  after  he  went  to  Eton,  he 
had  received  almost  with  Incredulity  the  news  of 
the  death  of  his  god-father,  Lord  Staclcley,  an 
octogenarian..  .  .  He  took  from  the  table  his 
album,  knowing  that  on  one  of  the  earliest  pages 
was  inscribed  his  boyish  sense  of  that  bereave- 
ment. Yes,  here  the  passage  was,  written  in  a 
large  round  hand: 

"Death  knocks,  as  we  know,  at  the  door  of  the 
cottage  and  of  the  castle.  He  stalks  up  the  front- 
garden  and  the  steep  steps  of  the  semi-detached 
villa,  and  plies  the  ornamental  knocker  so  imperi- 
ously that  the  panels  of  imitation  stained  glass 
quiver  in  the  thin  front-door.  Even  the  family 
that  occupies  the  topmost  story  of  a  building 
without  a  lift  is  on  his  ghastly  visiting-list.  He 
rattles  his  fleshless  knuckles  against  the  door  of 
the  gypsy's  caravan.  Into  the  savage's  tent,  wig- 
wam, or  wattled  hut,  he  darts  unbidden.  Even 
on  the  hermit  in  the  cave  he  forces  his  obnoxious 
presence.  His  is  an  universal  beat,  and  he  walks 
it  with  a  grin.     But  be  sure  it  is  at  the  sombre 


2IO  ZULi:iKA    DOBSON 

portal  ol  the  nobleman  that  he  knocks  with  the 
greatest  gusto.  It  is  there,  where  haply  his  visit 
will  be  commenioratcil  with  a  hatchment;  it  is 
tlien.  when  the  mulHetl  thunder  of  the  Dead 
March  in  'SauT  will  soon  be  rolling  in  cathedrals; 
it  is  then,  it  is  there,  that  the  pride  of  his  unques- 
tioned power  comes  grimliest  home  to  him.  Is 
there  no  withstanding  him?  Why  should  he  be 
admitted  always  Avith  awe,  a  cravenly-honoured 
guest?  When  next  he  calls,  let  the  butler  send 
him  about  his  business,  or  tell  him  to  step  round 
to  the  servants'  entrance.  If  it  be  made  plain  to 
him  that  his  visits  are  an  impertinence,  he  will 
soon  be  disemboldened.  Once  the  aristocracy 
make  a  stand  against  him,  there  need  be  no  more 
trouble  about  the  exorbitant  Duties  named  after 
him.  And  for  the  hereditary  system — that  system 
which  both  offends  the  common  sense  of  the  Rad- 
ical, and  wounds  the  Tory  by  its  implied  admission 
that  noblemen  are  mortal — a  seemly  substitute 
will  have  been  found." 

Artless  and  crude  in  expression,  very  boyish, 
it  seemed  now  to  its  author.  Yet,  in  Its  simple 
wistfulness,  it  had  quality:  it  rang  true.  The 
Duke  wondered  whether,  with  all  that  he  had 
since  mastered  in  the  great  art  of  English  prose, 
he  had  not  lost  something,  too. 

"Is  there  no  withstanding  him?"  To  think 
that  the  boy  who  uttered  that  cry,  and  gave  back 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  211 

so  brave  an  answer,  was  within  nine  years  to  go 
seek  death  of  his  own  accord!  How  the  gods 
must  be  laughing!  Yes,  the  exquisite  point  of  the 
joke,  for  them,  was  that  he  chose  to  die.  But — 
and,  as  the  thought  flashed  through  him,  he 
started  like  a  man  shot — what  if  he  chose  not  to? 
Stay,  surely  there  was  some  reason  why  he  must 
die.  Else,  why  throughout  the  night  had  he  taken 
his  doom  for  granted?.  .  .  Honour:  yes,  he  had 
pledged  himself.  Better  death  than  dishonour. 
Was  It,  though?  was  it?  Ah,  he,  who  had  come 
so  near  to  death,  saw  dishonour  as  a  tiny  trifle. 
Where  was  the  sting  of  it?  Not  he  would  be 
ridiculous  to-morrow — to-day.  Every  one  would 
acclaim  his  splendid  act  of  moral  courage.  She, 
she,  the  hyena  woman,  v/ould  be  the  fool.  No  one 
would  have  thought  of  dying  for  her,  had  he  not 
set  the  example.  Every  one  would  follow  his  new 
example.  Yes,  he  would  save  Oxford  yet.  That 
was  his  duty.  Duty  and  darling  vengeance  !  And 
life— life! 

It  was  full  dawn  now.  Gone  was  that  faint, 
monotonous  sound  which  had  punctuated  in  his 
soul  the  horrors  of  his  vigil.  But,  in  reminder  of 
those  hours,  his  lamp  was  still  burning.  He  ex- 
tinguished it;  and  the  going-out  of  that  tarnished 
light  made  perfect  his  sense  of  release. 

He  threw  wide  his  arms  in  welcome  of  the  great 
adorable  day,  and  of  all  the  great  adorable  days 
that  were  to  be  his. 


2  12  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

lie  leaned  out  from  his  window,  drinking  the 
dawn  in.  The  gods  had  made  merry  over  him, 
liad  they?  And  the  cry  of  the  hyena  had  made 
night  hideous.  Well,  it  was  his  turn  now.  He 
would  laugh  last  and  loudest. 

And  already,  for  what  was  to  be,  he  laughed 
outright  into  the  morning;  insomuch  that  the  birds 
in  the  trees  of  Trinity,  and  still  more  the  Em- 
perors over  the  way,  marvelled  greatly. 


XIV 

They  had  awaited  thousands  and  innumerable 
thousands  of  daybreaks  In  the  Broad,  these  Em- 
perors, counting  the  long  slow  hours  till  the  night 
were  over.  It  is  in  the  night  especially  that  their 
fallen  greatness  haunts  them.  Day  brings  some 
distraction.  They  are  not  incurious  of  the  lives 
around  them — these  little  lives  that  succeed  one 
another  so  quickly.  To  them,  in  their  immemorial 
old  age,  youth  is  a  constant  wonder.  And  so  is 
death,  which  to  them  comes  not.  Youth  or  death 
— which,  they  had  often  asked  themselves,  was  the 
goodlier?  But  it  was  ill  that  these  two  things 
should  be  mated.  It  was  ill-come,  this  day  of 
days. 

Long  after  the  Duke  was  in  bed  and  asleep,  his 
peal  of  laughter  echoed  in  the  ears  of  the  Em- 
perors.   Why  had  he  laughed? 

And  they  said  to  themselves  "We  are  very  old 
men,  and  broken,  and  in  a  land  not  our  own. 
There  are  things  that  we  do  not  understand." 

Brief  was  the  freshness  of  the  dawn.     From  all 

points  of  the  compass,  dark  grey  clouds  mounted 

into  the  sky.    There,  taking  their  places  as  though 

in  accordance  to  a  strategic  plan  laid  down  for 

213 


2  14  ZULF.IKA    DOBSON 

them,  they  ponderously  massed  themselves,  and 
presently,  as  at  a  given  signal,  drew  nearer  to 
earth,  and  halted,  an  irresistible  great  army, 
awaiting  orders. 

Somewhere  under  cover  of  them  the  sun  went 
his  way,  transmitting  a  sulphurous  heat.  The 
very  birds  in  the  trees  of, Trinity  were  oppressed 
and  did  not  twitter.  The  very  leaves  did  not 
■whisper. 

Out  through  the  railings,  and  across  the  road, 
prowled  a  skimpy  and  dingy  cat,  trying  to  look 
like  a  tiger. 

It  was  all  very  sinister  and  dismal. 

The  hours  passed.  The  Broad  put  forth,  one 
by  one,  its  signs  of  waking. 

Soon  after  eight  o'clock,  as  usual,  the  front- 
door of  the  Duke's  lodgings  was  opened  from 
within.  The  Emperors  watched  for  the  faint 
cloud  of  dust  that  presently  emerged,  and  for  her 
whom  it  preceded.  To  them,  this  first  outcoming 
of  the  landlady's  daughter  was  a  moment  of  daily 
Interest.  Katie! — they  had  known  her  as  a  tod- 
dling child;  and  later  as  a  little  girl  scampering 
off  to  school,  all  legs  and  pinafore  and  streaming 
golden  hair.  And  now  she  was  sixteen  years  old. 
Her  hair,  tied  back  at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  would 
very  soon  be  "up."  Her  big  blue  eyes  were  as 
they  had  always  been;  but  she  had  long  passed 
out  of  pinafores  into  aprons,  had  taken  on  a 
sedateness  befitting  her  years  and  her  duties,  and 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  215 

was  anxious  to  be  regarded  rather  as  an  aunt 
than  as  a  sister  by  her  brother  Clarence,  aged 
twelve.  The  Emperors  had  always  predicted  that 
she  would  be  pretty.    And  very  pretty  she  was. 

As  she  came  slowly  out,  with  eyes  downcast  to 
her  broom,  sweeping  the  dust  so  seriously  over 
the  doorstep  and  then  across  the  pavement,  and 
anon  when  she  reappeared  with  pail  and  scrub- 
bing-brush, and  abased  herself  before  the  door- 
step, and  wrought  so  vehemently  there,  what  filled 
her  little  soul  was  not  the  dignity  of  manual  la- 
bour. The  duties  that  Zuleika  had  envied  her 
were  dear  to  her  exactly  as  they  would  have  been, 
yesterday  morning,  to  Zuleika.  The  Emperors 
had  often  noticed  that  during  vacations  their  little 
favourite's  treatment  of  the  doorstep  was  languid 
and  perfunctory.  They  knew  well  her  secret,  and 
always  (for  who  can  be  long  in  England  without 
becoming  sentimental?)  they  cherished  the  hope 
of  a  romantic  union  between  her  and  "a  certain 
young  gentleman,"  as  they  archly  called  the  Duke. 
His  continued  indifference  to  her  they  took  almost 
as  an  affront  to  themselves.  Where  in  all  Eng- 
land was  a  prettier,  sweeter  girl  than  their  Katie? 
The  sudden  irruption  of  Zuleika  into  Oxford  was 
especially  grievous  to  them  because  they  could 
no  longer  hope  against  hope  that  Katie  would  be 
led  by  the  Duke  to  the  altar,  and  thence  into  the 
highest  social  circles,  and  live  happily  ever  after. 

Luckily  it  was  for  Katie,  however,  that  they 


2i6  ZULF.IKA    DOBSON 

had  no  power  to  fill  her  head  with  their  foolish 
notions.  It  was  well  for  her  to  have  never 
doubted  she  loved  In  ^•ain.  She  had  soon  grow^n 
used  to  her  lot.  Not  until  yesterday  had  there 
been  any  bitterness.  Jealousy  surged  in  Katie  at 
the  very  moment  when  she  beheld  Zulcika  on  the 
threshold.  A  glance  at  the  Duke's  face  when  she 
showed  the  visitor  up  w'as  enough  to  acquaint  her 
with  the  state  of  his  heart.  And  she  did  not,  for 
confirming  her  intuition,  need  the  two  or  three 
opportunities  she  took  of  listening  at  the  keyhole. 
What  In  the  course  of  those  informal  audiences 
did  surprise  her — so  much  indeed  that  she  could 
hardly  believe  her  ear — Avas  that  It  was  possible 
for  a  woman  not  to  love  the  Duke.  Her  jealousy 
of  "that  Miss  Dobson"  was  for  a  while  swallowed 
up  in  her  pity  for  him.  What  she  had  borne  so 
cheerfully  for  herself  she  could  not  bear  for  her 
hero.  She  wished  she  had  not  happened  to  listen. 
And  this  morning,  while  she  knelt  swaying  and 
spreading  over  "his"  doorstep,  her  blue  eyes 
added  certain  tears  to  be  scrubbed  away  In  the 
general  moisture  of  the  stone.  Rising,  she  dried 
her  hands  in  her  apron,  and  dried  her  eyes  with 
her  hands.  Lest  her  mother  should  see  that  she 
had  been  crying,  she  loitered  outside  the  door. 
Suddenly,  her  roving  glance  changed  to  a  stare 
of  acute  hostility.  She  knew  well  that  the  person 
wandering  towards  her  was — no,  not  "that  Miss 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  217 

Dobson,"  as  she  had  for  the  fraction  of  an  instant 
supposed,  but  the  next  worst  thing. 

It  has  been  said  that  Melisande  indoors  was  an 
evidently  French  maid.  Out  of  doors  she  was  not 
less  evidently  Zuleika's.  Not  that  she  aped  her 
mistress.  The  resemblance  had  come  by  force  of 
propinquity  and  devotion.  Nature  had  laid  no 
basis  for  it.  Not  one  point  of  form  or  colour 
had  the  two  women  in  common.  It  has  been  said 
that  Zuleika  was  not  strictly  beautiful.  Melisande, 
like  most  Frenchwomen,  was  strictly  plain.  But  in 
expression  and  port,  in  her  whole  toiirnure,  she 
had  become,  as  every  good  maid  does,  her  mis- 
tress' replica.  The  poise  of  her  head,  the  bold- 
ness of  her  regard  and  brilliance  of  her  smile, 
the  leisurely  and  swinging  way  in  which  she 
walked,  with  a  hand  on  the  hip — all  these  things 
of  hers  were  Zuleika's  too.  She  was  no  conqueror. 
None  but  the  man  to  whom  she  was  betrothed — 
a  waiter  at  the  Cafe  Tourtel,  named  Pelleas — 
had  ever  paid  court  to  her;  nor  was  she  covetous 
of  other  hearts.  Yet  she  looked  victorious,  and 
Insatiable  of  victories,  and  "terrible  as  an  army 
with  banners." 

In  the  hand  that  was  not  on  her  hip  she  carried 
a  letter.  And  on  her  shoulders  she  had  to  bear 
the  full  burden  of  the  hatred  that  Zuleika  had 
inspired  in  Katie.  But  this  she  did  not  know. 
She  came  glancing  boldly,  leisurely,  at  the  num- 
bers on  the  front-doors. 


2i8  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

Katie  stepped  back  on  to  the  doorstep,  lest  the 
inferiority  of  her  stature  should  mar  the  effect  of 
her  disdain. 

"Good-day.  Is  it  here  that  Duke  D'Orsay 
lives?"  asked  Melisande,  as  nearly  accurate  as  a 
Gaul  may  be  in  such  matters. 

"The  Duke  of  Dorset,"  said  Katie  with  a  cold 
and  insular  emphasis,  "lives  here."  And  "You," 
she  tried  to  convey  with  her  eyes,  "you,  for  all 
your  smart  black  silk,  are  a  hireling.  I  am  Miss 
Batch.  I  happen  to  have  a  hobby  for  housework. 
I  have  not  been  crying." 

"Then  please  mount  this  to  him  at  once,"  said 
Melisande,  holding  out  the  letter.  "It  is  from 
Miss  Dobson's  part.  Very  express.  I  wait 
response." 

"You  are  very  ugly,"  Katie  signalled  with  her 
eyes.  "I  am  very  pretty.  I  have  the  Oxfordshire 
complexion.  And  I  play  the  piano."  With  her 
lips  she  said  merely,  "His  Grace  is  not  called  be- 
fore nine  o'clock." 

"But  to-day  you  go  wake  him  now — quick — 
Is  it  not?" 

"Quite  out  of  the  question,"  said  Katie.  "If 
you  care  to  leave  that  letter  here,  I  will  see  that 
it  is  placed  on  his  Grace's  breakfast-table,  with 
the  morning's  post."  "For  the  rest,"  added  her 
eyes,  "Down  with  France!" 

"I  find  you  droll,  but  droll,  my  little  one!" 
cried  Melisande. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  219 

Katie  stepped  back  and  shut  the  door  in  her 
face.  "Like  a  little  Empress,"  the  Emperors 
commented. 

The  Frenchwoman  threw  up  her  hands  and 
apostrophised  heaven.  To  this  day  she  believes 
that  all  the  bonnes  of  Oxford  are  mad,  but  mad, 
and  of  a  madness. 

She  stared  at  the  door,  at  the  pail  and  scrub- 
bing-brush that  had  been  shut  out  with  her,  at  the 
letter  in  her  hand.  She  decided  that  she  had  bet- 
ter drop  the  letter  into  the  slit  in  the  door  and 
make  report  to  Miss  Dobson. 

As  the  envelope  fell  through  the  slit  to  the 
door-mat,  Katie  made  at  Melisande  a  grimace 
which,  had  not  the  panels  been  opaque,  would 
have  astonished  the  Emperors.  Resuming  her 
dignity,  she  picked  the  thing  up,  and,  at  arm's 
length,  examined  it.  It  was  inscribed  in  pencil. 
Katie's  lips  curled  at  sight  of  the  large,  audacious 
handwriting.  But  it  is  probable  that  whatever 
kind  of  handwriting  Zuleika  might  have  had 
would  have  been  just  the  kind  that  Katie  would 
have  expected. 

Fingering  the  envelope,  she  wondered  what  the 
v/retched  woman  had  to  say.  It  occurred  to  her 
that  the  kettle  was  simmering  on  the  hob  in  the 
kitchen,  and  that  she  might  easily  steam  open 
the  envelope  and  master  its  contents.  However, 
her  doing  this  would  have  in  no  way  affected  the 
course  of  the  tragedy.     And  so  the  gods   (being 


220  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

to-day  In  a  strictly  artistic  mood)  prompted  her 
to  mind  her  own  business. 

Laying  the  Duke's  table  for  breakfast,  she 
made  as  usual  a  neat  rectangular  pile  of  the  letters 
that  had  come  for  him  by  post.  Zuleika's  letter 
she  threw  down  askew.  That  luxury  she  allowed 
herself. 

And  he,  when  he  saw  the  letter,  allowed  him- 
self the  luxury  of  leaving  it  unopened  awhile. 
Whatever  its  purport,  he  knew  it  could  but  min- 
ister to  his  happy  malice.  A  few  hours  ago,  with 
what  shame  and  dread  it  would  have  stricken 
him !     Now  it  was  a  dainty  to  be  dallied  with. 

His  eyes  rested  on  the  black  tin  boxes  that 
contained  his  robes  of  the  Garter.  Hateful  had 
been  the  sight  of  them  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 
when  he  thought  he  had  worn  those  robes  for  the 
last  time.     But  now ! 

He  opened  Zuleika's  letter.  It  did  not  disap- 
point him. 

"Dear  Duke, — Do,  do  forgive  me.  I  am  be- 
yond words  ashamed  of  the  silly  tomboyish  thing 
I  did  last  night.  Of  course  it  was  no  worse  than 
that,  but  an  awful  fear  haunts  me  that  you  7}iay 
have  thought  I  acted  in  anger  at  the  idea  of  your 
breaking  your  promise  to  me.  Well,  It  is  quite 
true  I  had  been  hurt  and  angry  when  you  hinted 
at  doing  that,  but  the  moment  I  left  you  I  saw 
that  you  had  been  only  in  fun,  and  I  enjoyed  the 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  221 

joke  against  myself,  though  I  thought  It  was 
rather  too  bad  of  you.  And  then,  as  a  sort  of  re- 
venge, but  almost  before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing, 
I  played  that  idiotic  practical  joke  on  you.  I  have 
been  miserable  ever  since.  Do  come  round  as 
early  as  possible  and  tell  me  I  am  forgiven.  But 
before  you  tell  me  that,  please  lecture  me  till  I 
cry — though  Indeed  I  have  been  crying  half 
through  the  night.  And  then  If  you  want  to  be 
very  horrid  you  may  tease  me  for  being  so  slow 
to  see  a  joke.  And  then  you  might  take  me  to 
see  some  of  the  Colleges  and  things  before  we  go 
on  to  lunch  at  The  MacQuern's?  Forgive  pencil 
and  scrawl.  Am  sitting  up  In  bed  to  write. — 
Your  sincere  friend,  "Z.  D. 

"P.S.— Please  burn  this." 

At  that  final  injunction,  the  Duke  abandoned 
himself  to  his  mirth.  "Please  burn  this."  Poor 
dear  young  woman,  how  modest  she  Avas  in  the 
glare  of  her  diplomacy!  Why  there  was  nothing, 
not  one  phrase,  to  compromise  her  In  the  eyes  of 
a  coroner's  jury!.  .  .  Seriously,  she  had  good  rea- 
son to  be  proud  of  her  letter.  For  the  purpose 
in  view  It  couldn't  have  been  better  done.  That 
was  what  made  It  so  touchlngly  absurd.  He  put 
himself  In  her  position.  He  pictured  himself  as 
her,  "sitting  up  In  bed,"  pencil  in  hand,  to  explain 
away,  to  soothe,  to  clinch  and  bind.  .  .  Yes,  If 
he  had   happened  to  be   some   other  man — one 


222  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

whom  her  insult  might  have  angered  without  giv- 
ing love  its  dcath-hlow,  and  one  who  could  be 
frightened  out  of  not  keeping  his  word — this  let- 
ter would  have  been  capital. 

He  helped  himself  to  some  more  marmalade, 
and  poured  out  another  cup  of  coffee.  Nothing 
is  more  thrilling,  thought  he,  than  to  be  treated 
as  a  cully  by  the  person  you  hold  in  the  hollow  of 
your  hand. 

But  within  this  great  irony  lay  (to  be  glided 
over)  another  irony.  He  knew  w'ell  in  what 
mood  Zuleika  had  done  what  she  had  done  to 
him  last  night;  yet  he  preferred  to  accept  her  ex- 
planation of  it. 

Officially,  then,  he  acquitted  her  of  anything 
worse  than  tomboyishness.  But  this  verdict  for 
his  own  convenience  implied  no  mercy  to  the  cul- 
prit. The  sole  point  for  him  was  how  to  ad- 
minister her  punishment  the  most  poignantly. 
Just  how  should  he  word  his  letter? 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  and  "Dear  Miss  Dob- 
son — no,  My  dear  Miss  Dobson,"  he  murmured, 
pacing  the  room,  "I  am  so  very  sorry  I  cannot 
come  to  see  you :  I  have  to  attend  two  lectures  this 
morning.  By  contrast  with  this  weariness,  it  will 
be  the  more  delightful  to  meet  you  at  The  Mac- 
Quern's.  I  want  to  see  as  much  as  I  can  of  you 
to-day,  because  to-night  there  is  the  Bump  Supper, 
and  to-morrow  morning,  alas!  I  must  motor  to 
Windsor  for  this  wretched  Investiture.      Mean- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  223 

while,  how  can  you  ask  to  be  forgiven  when  there 
is  nothing  whatever  to  forgive?  It  seems  to  me 
that  mine,  not  yours,  is  the  form  of  humour  that 
needs  explanation.  My  proposal  to  die  for  you 
was  made  in  as  playful  a  spirit  as  my  proposal 
to  marry  you.  And  it  is  really  for  me  to  ask  for- 
giveness of  you.  One  thing  especially,"  he  mur- 
mured, fingering  in  his  waistcoat-pocket  the  ear- 
rings she  had  given  him,  "pricks  my  conscience. 
I  do  feel  that  I  ought  not  to  have  let  you  give 
me  these  two  pearls — at  any  rate,  not  the  one 
which  went  into  premature  mourning  for  me.  As 
I  have  no  means  of  deciding  which  of  the  two  this 
one  is,  I  enclose  them  both,  with  the  hope  that 
the  pretty  difference  between  them  will  in  time  re- 
appear"... Or  words  to  that  effect...  Stay! 
why  not  add  to  the  joy  of  contriving  that  effect 
the  greater  joy  of  watching  it?  Why  send  Zu- 
leika  a  letter?  He  would  obey  her  summons. 
He  would  speed  to  her  side.  He  snatched  up  a 
hat. 

In  this  haste,  however,  he  detected  a  certain 
lack  of  dignity.  He  steadied  himself,  and  went 
slowly  to  the  mirror.  There  he  adjusted  his  hat 
with  care,  and  regarded  himself  very  seriously, 
very  sternly,  from  various  angles,  like  a  man  In- 
vited to  paint  his  own  portrait  for  the  Uffizl.  He 
must  be  worthy  of  himself.  It  was  well  that 
Zuleika  should  be  chastened.  Great  was  her  sin. 
Out  of  life  and  death  she  had  fashioned  toys  for 


2  24  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

her  vanity.  But  his  joy  must  be  in  vindication  of 
what  was  noMc,  not  in  making  suffer  wliat  was 
vile.  Yesterday  lie  had  been  her  puppet,  her 
Jumping-Jack;  to-day  it  was  as  avenging  angel 
that  he  would  appear  before  her.  The  gods  had 
mocked  him  who  was  now  their  minister.  Their 
minister?  Their  master,  as  being  once  more 
master  of  himself.  It  was  they  who  had  plotted 
his  undoing.  Because  they  loved  him  they  were 
fain  that  he  should  die  young.  The  Dobson 
woman  was  but  their  agent,  their  cat's-paw.  By 
her  they  had  all  but  got  him.  Not  quite!  And 
now,  to  teach  them,  through  her,  a  lesson  they 
would  not  soon  forget,  he  would  go  forth. 

Shaking  with  laughter,  the  gods  leaned  over 
the  thunder-clouds  to  watch  him. 

He  went  forth. 

On  the  well-whitened  doorstep  he  was  con- 
fronted by  a  small  boy  in  uniform  bearing  a  tele- 
gram. 

"Duke  of  Dorset?"  asked  the  small  boy. 

Opening  the  envelope,  the  Duke  saw  that  the 
message,  with  which  w^as  a  prepaid  form  for  re- 
ply, had  been  handed  in  at  the  Tankerton  post- 
office.     It  ran  thus : 

Deeply  regret  inform  your  grace  last  night 
two  black  owls  came  and  perched  on  battle- 
ments remained  there  through  night  hooting 
at  dawn  flew  away  none  knows  whither 
awaiting  instructions  Jellings 


ZULEIKA    DOBSON  225 

The  Duke's  face,  though  It  grew  white,  moved 
not  one  muscle. 

Somewhat  shamed  now,  the  gods  ceased  from 
laughing. 

The  Duke  looked  from  the  telegram  to  the  boy. 
"Have  you  a  pencil?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  my  Lord,"  said  the  boy,  producing  a 
stump  of  pencil. 

Holding  the  prepaid  form  against  the  door,  the 
Duke  wrote : 

JeUings     Tankerton  Hall 

Prepare  vault  for  funeral  Monday 

Dorset 

His  handwriting  was  as  firmly  and  minutely 
beautiful  as  ever.  Only  In  that  he  forgot  there 
was  nothing  to  pay  did  he  belie  his  calm.  "Here," 
he  said  to  the  boy,  "Is  a  shilling;  and  you  may 
keep  the  change." 

"Thank  you,  my  Lord,"  said  the  boy,  and  went 
his  way,  as  happy  as  a  postman. 


XV 


Humphrey  Grlddon,  in  the  Duke's  place,  would 
have  taken  a  pinch  of  snuff.  But  he  could  not 
have  made  that  gesture  with  a  finer  air  than  the 
Duke  gave  to  its  modern  equivalent.  In  the  art 
of  taking  and  lighting  a  cigarette,  there  was  one 
man  who  had  no  rival  in  Europe.  This  time  he 
outdid  even  himself. 

"Ah,"  you  say,  "but  'pluck'  is  one  thing,  en- 
durance another.  A  man  who  doesn't  reel  on 
receipt  of  his  death-warrant  may  yet  break  down 
when  he  has  had  time  to  think  it  over.  How  did 
the  Duke  acquit  himself  when  he  came  to  the  end 
of  his  cigarette?  And  by  the  way,  how  was  it  that 
after  he  had  read  the  telegram  you  didn't  give 
him  again  an  hour's  grace?" 

In  a  way,  you  have  a  perfect  right  to  ask  both 
those  questions.  But  their  very  pertinence  shows 
that  you  think  I  might  omit  things  that  matter. 
Please  don't  interrupt  me  again.  Am  /  writing 
this  history,  or  are  you? 

Though  the  news  that  he  must  die  was  a  yet 
sharper  douche,  as  you  have  suggested,  than  the 
douche  inflicted  by  Zuleika,  it  did  at  least  leave 
unscathed  the  Duke's  pride.     The  gods  can  make 

226 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  227 

a  man  ridiculous  through  a  woman,  but  they  can- 
not make  him  ridiculous  when  they  deal  him  a 
blow  direct.  The  very  greatness  of  their  power 
makes  them,  in  that  respect,  impotent.  They  had 
decreed  that  the  Duke  should  die,  and  they  had 
told  him  so.  There  was  nothing  to  demean  him 
in  that.  True,  he  had  just  measured  himself 
against  them.  But  there  was  no  shame  in  being 
gravelled.  The  peripety  was  according  to  the 
best  rules  of  tragic  art.  The  whole  thing  was 
In  the  grand  manner. 

Thus  I  felt  that  there  were  no  indelicacy,  this 
time.  In  watching  him.  Just  as  "pluck"  comes 
of  breeding,  so  is  endurance  especially  an  attribute 
of  the  artist.  Because  he  can  stand  outside  him- 
self, and  (If  there  be  nothing  Ignoble  In  them) 
take  a  pleasure  In  his  own  sufferings,  the  artist 
has  a  huge  advantage  over  you  and  me.  The 
Duke,  so  soon  as  Zuleika's  spell  was  broken,  had 
become  himself  again — a  highly  self-conscious 
artist  in  life.  And  now,  standing  pensive  on  the 
doorstep,  he  was  almost  enviable  in  his  great 
affliction. 

Through  the  wreaths  of  smoke  which,  as  they 
came  from  his  lips,  hung  In  the  sultry  air  as  they 
would  have  hung  in  a  closed  room,  he  gazed  up 
at  the  steadfast  thunder-clouds.  How  nobly  they 
had  been  massed  for  him!  One  of  them,  a  par- 
ticularly large  and  dark  one,  might  with  advan- 
tage, he  thought,  have  been  placed  a  little  further 


22S  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

to  the  left.  lie  made  a  gesture  to  that  effect. 
Instantly  the  cloud  rolled  into  position.  The  gods 
were  painfully  anxious,  now,  to  humour  him  in 
trifles.  His  behaviour  in  the  great  emergency 
had  so  impressed  them  at  a  distance  that  they 
rather  dreaded  meeting  him  anon  at  close  quar- 
ters. They  rather  wished  they  had  not  uncaged, 
last  night,  the  two  black  owls.  Too  late.  What 
they  had  done  they  had  done. 

That  faint  monotonous  sound  in  the  stillness  of 
the  night — the  Duke  remembered  it  now.  What 
he  had  thought  to  be  only  his  fancy  had  been  his 
death-knell,  wafted  to  him  along  uncharted  waves 
of  ether,  from  the  battlements  of  Tankerton.  It 
had  ceased  at  daybreak.  He  wondered  now  that 
he  had  not  guessed  its  meaning.  And  he  was 
glad  that  he  had  not.  He  was  thankful  for  the 
peace  that  had  been  granted  to  him,  the  joyous 
arrogance  in  which  he  had  gone  to  bed  and  got 
up  for  breakfast.  He  valued  these  mercies  the 
more  for  the  great  tragic  irony  that  came  of 
them.  Aye,  and  he  was  inclined  to  blame  the 
gods  for  not  having  kept  him  still  longer  in  the 
dark  and  so  made  the  irony  still  more  awful. 
Why  had  they  not  caused  the  telegram  to  be  de- 
layed in  transmission?  They  ought  to  have  let 
him  go  and  riddle  Zuleika  with  his  scorn  and  his 
indifference.  They  ought  to  have  let  him  hurl 
through  her  his  defiance  of  them.  Art  aside,  they 
need  not  have  grudged  him  that  excursion. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  229 

He  could  not,  he  told  himself,  face  Zuleika 
now.  As  artist,  he  saw  that  there  was  irony 
enough  left  over  to  make  the  meeting  a  fine  one. 
As  theologian,  he  did  not  hold  her  responsible  for 
his  destiny.  But  as  a  man,  after  what  she  had 
done  to  him  last  night,  and  before  what  he  had  to 
do  for  her  to-day,  he  would  not  go  out  of  his  way 
to  meet  her.  Of  course,  he  would  not  actually 
avoid  her.  To  seem  to  run  away  from  her  were 
beneath  his  dignity.  But,  if  he  did  meet  her,  what 
in  heaven's  name  should  he  say  to  her?  He  re- 
membered his  promise  to  lunch  with  The  Mac- 
Quern,  and  shuddered.  She  would  be  there. 
Death,  as  he  had  said,  cancelled  all  engagements. 
A  very  simple  way  out  of  the  difficulty  would  be 
to  go  straight  to  the  river.  No,  that  would  be 
like  running  away.     It  couldn't  be  done. 

Hardly  had  he  rejected  the  notion  when  he  had 
a  glimpse  of  a  female  figure  coming  quickly  round 
the  corner — a  glimpse  that  sent  him  walking 
quickly  away,  across  the  road,  towards  Turl 
Street,  blushing  violently.  Had  she  seen  him?  he 
asked  himself.  And  had  she  seen  that  he  saw 
her?  He  heard  her  running  after  him.  He  did 
not  look  round,  he  quickened  his  pace.  She  was 
gaining  on  him.  Involuntarily,  he  ran — ran  like 
a  hare,  and,  at  the  corner  of  Turl  Street,  rose  like 
a  trout,  saw  the  pavement  rise  at  him,  and  fell, 
with  a  bang,  prone. 

Let  It  be  said  at  once  that  in  this  matter  the 


230  ZULi:iKA    DOBSON 

gods  were  absolutely  blameless.  It  Is  true  they 
had  decreed  that  a  piece  of  orange-peel  should  be 
thrown  down  this  morning  at  the  corner  of  lurl 
Street.  But  the  Master  of  Balliol,  not  the  Duke, 
was  the  person  they  had  destined  to  slip  on  it. 
You  must  not  imagine  that  they  think  out  and 
appoint  everything  that  is  to  befall  us,  down  to 
the  smallest  detail.  Generally,  they  just  draw  a 
sort  of  broad  outline,  and  leave  us  to  fill  it  in 
according  to  our  taste.  Thus,  in  the  matters  of 
which  this  book  is  record,  it  was  they  who  made 
the  Warden  invite  his  grand-daughter  to  Oxford, 
and  invite  the  Duke  to  meet  her  on  the  evening 
of  her  arrival.  And  it  was  they  who  prompted 
the  Duke  to  die  for  her  on  the  following  (Tues- 
day) afternoon.  They  had  intended  that  he 
should  execute  his  resolve  after,  or  before,  the 
boat-race  of  that  evening.  But  an  oversight  up- 
set this  plan.  They  had  forgotten  on  Monday 
night  to  uncage  the  two  black  owls;  and  so  it  was 
necessary  that  the  Duke's  death  should  be  post- 
poned. They  accordingly  prompted  Zuleika  to 
save  him.  For  the  rest,  they  let  the  tragedy  run 
its  own  course — merely  putting  in  a  felicitous 
touch  here  and  there,  or  vetoing  a  superfluity, 
such  as  that  Katie  should  open  Zuleika's  letter. 
It  was  no  part  of  their  scheme  that  the  Duke 
should  mistake  Melisande  for  her  mistress,  or 
that  he  should  run  away  from  her,  and  they  were 
genuinely  sorry  when  he,  instead  of  the  Master 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  231 

of  Balliol,  came  to  grief  over  the  orange-peel. 

Them,  however,  the  Duke  cursed  as  he  fell; 
them  again  as  he  raised  himself  on  one  elbow, 
giddy  and  sore;  and  when  he  found  that  the 
woman  bending  over  him  was  not  she  whom  he 
dreaded,  but  her  Innocent  maid,  It  was  against 
them  that  he  almost  foamed  at  the  mouth. 

"Monsieur  le  Due  has  done  himself  harm — 
no?"  panted  Melisande.  "Here  is  a  letter  from 
Miss  Dobson's  part.  She  say  to  me  'Give  It  him 
with  your  own  hand.'  " 

The  Duke  received  the  letter  and,  sitting  up- 
right, tore  It  to  shreds,  thus  confirming  a  sus- 
picion which  Melisande  had  conceived  at  the 
moment  when  he  took  to  his  heels,  that  all  Eng- 
lish noblemen  are  mad,  but  mad,  and  of  a  mad- 
ness. 

"Nom  de  Dieu,"  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands, 
"what  shall  I  tell  to  Mademoiselle?" 

"Tell  her — "  the  Duke  choked  back  a  phrase 
of  which  the  memory  would  have  shamed  his  last 
hours.  "Tell  her,"  he  substituted,  "that  you  have 
seen  Marius  sitting  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage," 
and  limped  quickly  away  down  the  Turl. 

Both  his  hands  had  been  abraded  by  the  fall. 
He  tended  them  angrily  with  his  handkerchief. 
Mr.  Druce,  the  chemist,  had  anon  the  privilege  of 
bathing  and  plastering  them,  also  of  balming  and 
binding  the  right  knee  and  the  left  shin.  "Might 
have  been  a  very  nasty  accident,  your  Grace,"  he 


232  ZULKIKA    DOBSON 

said.  ''It  was,"  said  the  Duke.  Mr.  Drucc  con- 
curred. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Druce's  remark  sank  deep. 
The  Duke  thought  it  quite  likely  that  the  gods 
had  intended  the  accident  to  be  fatal,  and  that 
only  by  his  own  skill  and  lightness  in  falling  had 
he  escaped  the  ignominy  of  dying  in  full  flight 
from  a  lady's-maid.  He  had  not,  you  see,  lost  all 
sense  of  free-will.  While  Mr.  Druce  put  the  fin- 
ishing touches  to  his  shin,  "1  am  utterly  pur- 
posed," he  said  to  himself,  "that  for  this  death  of 
mine  I  will  choose  my  own  manner  and  my  own — 
well,  not  'time'  exactly,  but  whatever  moment 
within  my  brief  span  of  life  shall  seem  aptest  to 
me.  Unbenifen,"  he  added,  lightly  tapping  Mr. 
Druce's  counter. 

The  sight  of  some  bottles  of  Cold  Mixture  on 
that  hospitable  board  reminded  him  of  a  painful 
fact.  In  the  clash  of  the  morning's  excitements, 
he  had  hardly  felt  the  gross  ailment  that  was  on 
him.  He  became  fully  conscious  of  it  now,  and 
there  leapt  In  him  a  hideous  doubt:  had  he  es- 
caped a  violent  death  only  to  succumb  to  "natural 
causes"?  He  had  never  hitherto  had  anything 
the  matter  with  him,  and  thus  he  belonged  to  the 
worst,  the  most  apprehensive,  class  of  patients. 
He  knew  that  a  cold,  were  it  neglected,  might  turn 
malignant;  and  he  had  a  vision  of  himself  gripped 
suddenly  in  the  street  by  internal  agonies — a  sym- 
pathetic crowd,  an  ambulance,  his  darkened  bed- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  233 

room;  local  doctor  making  hopelessly  wrong 
diagnosis;  eminent  specialists  served  up  hot  by 
special  train,  commending  local  doctor's  treat- 
ment, but  shaking  their  heads  and  refusing  to  say 
more  than  "He  has  youth  on  his  side";  a  slight 
rally  at  sunset;  the  end.  All  this  flashed  through 
his  mind.  He  quailed.  There  was  not  a  moment 
to  lose.  He  frankly  confessed  to  Mr.  Druce 
that  he  had  a  cold. 

Mr.  Druce,  trying  to  insinuate  by  his  manner 
that  this  fact  had  not  been  obvious,  suggested  the 
Mixture — a  teaspoonful  every  two  hours.  "Give 
me  some  now,  please,  at  once,"  said  the  Duke. 

He  felt  magically  better  for  the  draught.  He 
handled  the  little  glass  lovingly,  and  eyed  the  bot- 
tle. "Why  not  two  teaspoonfuls  every  hour?"  he 
suggested,  with  an  eagerness  almost  dipsomani- 
acal.  But  Mr.  Druce  was  respectfully  firm  against 
that.  The  Duke  yielded.  He  fancied,  indeed,  that 
the  gods  had  meant  him  to  die  of  an  overdose. 

Still,  he  had  a  craving  for  more.  Few  though 
his  hours  were,  he  hoped  the  next  two  would  pass 
quickly.  And,  though  he  knew  Mr.  Druce  could 
be  trusted  to  send  the  bottle  round  to  his  rooms 
immediately,  he  preferred  to  carry  it  away  with 
him.  He  slipped  it  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his 
coat,  almost  heedless  of  the  slight  extrusion  it 
made  there. 

Just  as  he  was  about  to  cross  the  High  again, 
on  his  way  home,  a  butcher's  cart  dashed  down 


234  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

the  slope,  recklessly  driven.  He  stepped  well 
hack  on  the  pavement,  and  smiled  a  sardonic 
smile.  He  looked  to  right  and  to  left,  carefully 
gauging  the  traffic.  Some  time  elapsed  before  he 
deemed  the  road  clear  enough  for  transit. 

Safely  across,  he  encountered  a  figure  that 
seemed  to  loom  up  out  of  the  dim  past.  Oover! 
Was  it  but  yesternight  that  Oover  dined  with 
him?  With  the  sensation  of  a  man  groping 
among  archives,  he  began  to  apologise  to  the 
Rhodes  Scholar  for  having  left  him  so  abruptly 
at  the  Junta.  Then,  presto! — as  though  those 
musty  archives  were  changed  to  a  crisp  morning 
paper  agog  with  terrific  head-lines — he  remem- 
bered the  awful  resolve  of  Oover,  and  of  all 
young  Oxford. 

"Of  course,"  he  asked,  with  a  lightness  that 
hardly  hid  his  dread  of  the  answer,  "you  have 
dismissed  the  notion  you  were  toying  with  when 
I  left  you?" 

Oover's  face,  like  his  nature,  w'as  as  sensitive 
as  It  was  massive,  and  it  instantly  expressed  his 
pain  at  the  doubt  cast  on  his  high  seriousness. 
"Duke,"  he  asked,  "d'you  take  me  for  a  skunk?" 

"Without  pretending  to  be  quite  sure  what  a 
skunk  is,"  said  the  Duke,  "I  take  you  to  be  all 
that  It  Isn't.  And  the  high  esteem  in  which  I 
hold  you  Is  the  measure  for  me  of  the  loss  that 
your  death  would  be  to  America  and  to  Oxford." 

Oover   blushed.      "Duke,"   he   said,    "that's   a 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  235 

bully  testimonial.  But  don't  worry.  America  can 
turn  out  millions  just  like  me,  and  Oxford  can 
have  as  many  of  them  as  she  can  hold.  On  the 
other  hand,  how  many  of  you  can  be  turned  out, 
as  per  sample,  in  England?  Yet  you  choose  to 
destroy  yourself.  You  avail  yourself  of  the  Un- 
written Law.  And  you're  right,  Sir.  Love 
transcends  all." 

"But  does  it?  What  if  I  told  you  I  had  changed 
my  mind?" 

"Then,  Duke,"  said  Oover,  slowly,  "I  should 
believe  that  all  those  yarns  I  used  to  hear  about 
the  British  aristocracy  were  true,  after  all.  I 
should  aver  that  you  were  not  a  white  man.  Lead- 
ing us  on  like  that,  and  then —  Say,  Duke !  Are 
you  going  to  die  to-day,  or  not?" 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  am,  but " 

"Shake!" 

"But " 

Oover  wrung  the  Duke's  hand,  and  was  passing 
on.     "Stay!"  he  was  adjured. 

"Sorry,  unable.  It's  just  turning  eleven  o'clock, 
and  I've  a  lecture.  While  life  lasts,  I'm  bound  to 
respect  Rhodes'  intentions."  The  conscientious 
Scholar  hurried  away. 

The  Duke  wandered  down  the  High,  taking 
counsel  with  himself.  He  was  ashamed  of  having 
so  utterly  forgotten  the  mischief  he  had  wrought 
at  large.  At  dawn  he  had  vowed  to  undo  it. 
Undo  it  he  must.     But  the  task  was  not  a  simple 


236  ZULEIKA  DOBSON 

one  now.  If  he  could  say  "Behold,  I  take  back 
my  word.  I  spurn  Miss  Dobson,  and  embrace 
life,"  It  was  possible  that  his  example  would 
suffice.  But  now  that  he  could  only  say  "Behold, 
I  spurn  Miss  Dobson,  and  will  not  die  for  her, 
but  I  am  going  to  commit  suicide,  all  the  same," 
it  was  clear  that  his  words  would  carry  very  little 
force.  Also,  he  saw  with  pain  that  they  placed 
him  In  a  somewhat  ludicrous  position.  His  end, 
as  designed  yesterday,  had  a  large  and  simple 
grandeur.  So  had  his  recantation  of  It.  But  this 
new  compromise  between  the  two  things  had  a 
fumbled,  a  feeble,  an  Ignoble  look.  It  seemed 
to  combine  all  the  disadvantages  of  both  courses. 
It  stained  his  honour  without  prolonging  his  life. 
Surely,  this  was  a  high  price  to  pay  for  snubbing 
Zuleika...  Yes,  he  must  revert  without  more 
ado  to  his  first  scheme.  He  must  die  in  the  man- 
ner that  he  had  blazoned  forth.  And  he  must 
do  it  with  a  good  grace,  none  knowing  he  was  not 
glad;  else  the  action  lost  all  dignity.  True,  this 
was  no  way  to  be  a  saviour.  But  only  by  not 
dying  at  all  could  he  have  set  a  really  potent  ex- 
ample.. .  .  He  remembered  the  look  that  had 
come  into  Cover's  eyes  just  now  at  the  notion  of 
his  unfaith.  Perhaps  he  would  have  been  the 
mock,  not  the  saviour,  of  Oxford.  Better  dis- 
honour than  death,  maybe.  But,  since  die  he 
must,  he  must  die  not  belittling  or  tarnishing  the 
name  of  Tanville-Tankerton. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  237 

Within  these  bounds,  however,  he  must  put 
forth  his  full  might  to  avert  the  general  catas- 
trophe— and  to  punish  Zuleika  nearly  well  enough, 
after  all,  by  intercepting  that  vast  nosegay  from 
her  outstretched  hands  and  her  distended  nostrils. 
There  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  then.  But  he  won- 
dered, as  he  paced  the  grand  curve  between  St. 
Mary's  and  Magdalen  Bridge,  just  how  was  he 
to  begin? 

Down  the  flight  of  steps  from  Queen's  came 
lounging  an  average  undergraduate. 

"Mr.  Smith,"  said  the  Duke,  "a  word  with 
you." 

"But  mynameisnotSmith,"said  theyoung  man. 

"Generically  it  is,"  replied  the  Duke.  "You 
are  Smith  to  all  intents  and  purposes.  That, 
indeed,  is  why  I  address  you.  In  making  your 
acquaintance,  I  make  a  thousand  acquaintances. 
You  are  a  short  cut  to  knowledge.  Tell  me,  do 
you  seriously  think  of  drowning  yourself  this 
afternoon?" 

"Rather,"  said  the  undergraduate. 

"A  meiosis  in  common  use,  equivalent  to  'Yes, 
assuredly,'  "  murmured  the  Duke.  "And  why," 
he  then  asked,  "do  you  mean  to  do  this?" 

"Why?  How  can  you  ask?  Why  are  yoii 
going  to  do  it?" 

"The  Socratic  manner  is  not  a  game  at  which 
two  can  play.  Please  answer  my  question,  to  the 
best  of  your  ability." 


238  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

"Well,  because   I  can't  live  without  her.     Be- 
cause  I   want   to   prove   my  love   for   her.      Be- 


cause- 


"One  reason  at  a  time  please,"  said  the  Duke, 
holding  up  his  hand.  "You  can't  live  without 
her?  Then  I  am  to  assume  that  you  look  forward 
to  dying?" 

"Rather." 

"You  are  truly  happy  in  that  prospect?" 

"Yes.     Rather." 

"Now,  suppose  I  showed  you  two  pieces  of 
equally  fine  amber — a  big  one  and  a  little  one. 
Which  of  these  would  you  rather  possess?" 

"The  big  one,  I  suppose." 

"And  this  because  it  is  better  to  have  more 
than  to  have  less  of  a  good  thing?" 

"Just  so." 

"Do  you  consider  happiness  a  good  thing  or  a 
bad  one?" 

"A  good  one." 

"So  that  a  man  would  rather  have  more  than 
less  of  happiness?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"Then  does  it  not  seem  to  you  that  you  would 
do  well  to  postpone  your  suicide  indefinitely?" 

"But  I  have  just  said  I  can't  live  without  her." 

"You  have  still  more  recently  declared  yourself 
truly  happy." 

"Yes,  but " 

"Now,  be  careful,  Mr.  Smith.     Remember,  this 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  239 

is  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  Try  to  do  yourself 
justice.     I  have  asked  you " 

But  the  undergraduate  was  walking  away,  not 
without  a  certain  dignity. 

The  Duke  felt  that  he  had  not  handled  his 
man  skilfully.  He  remembered  that  even  Socrates, 
for  all  the  popular  charm  of  his  mock-modesty 
and  his  true  geniality,  had  ceased  after  a  while 
to  be  tolerable.  Without  such  a  manner  to  grace 
his  method,  Socrates  would  have  had  a  very  brief 
time  indeed.  The  Duke  recoiled  from  what  he 
took  to  be  another  pitfall.  He  almost  smelt 
hemlock. 

A  party  of  four  undergraduates  abreast  was 
approaching.  How  should  he  address  them?  His 
choice  wavered  between  the  evangelic  wistfulness 
of  "Are  you  saved?"  and  the  breeziness  of  the 
recruiting  sergeant's  "Come,  you're  fine  upstand- 
ing young  fellows.  Isn't  it  a  pity,"  etc.  Mean- 
while, the  quartet  had  passed  by. 

Two  other  undergraduates  approached.  The 
Duke  asked  them  simply  as  a  personal  favour  to 
himself  not  to  throw  away  their  lives.  They  said 
they  were  very  sorry,  but  in  this  particular  matter 
they  must  please  themselves.  In  vain  he  pled. 
They  admitted  that  but  for  his  example  they 
would  never  have  thought  of  dying.  They  wished 
they  could  show  him  their  gratitude  in  any  way 
but  the  one  which  would  rob  them  of  it. 

The  Duke  drifted  further  down  the  High,  be- 


240  zl:li:ika  dobson 

speaking  every  iindergratluate  lie  met,  leaving  un- 
tried no  argument,  no  inducement.  For  one  man, 
whose  name  he  happened  to  know,  he  Invented 
an  urgent  personal  message  from  Miss  Dobson 
imploring  him  not  to  die  on  her  account.  On 
another  man  he  offered  to  settle  by  hasty  codicil 
a  sum  of  money  sufficient  to  yield  an  annual  in- 
come of  two  thousand  pounds — three  thousand — 
any  sum  within  reason.  With  another  he  offered 
to  walk,  arm  in  arm,  to  Carfax  and  back  again. 
All  to  no  avail. 

He  found  himself  in  the  precincts  of  Mag- 
dalen, preaching  from  the  little  open-air  pulpit 
there  an  impassioned  sermon  on  the  sacredness 
of  human  life,  and  referring  to  Zuleika  in  terms 
which  John  Knox  would  have  hesitated  to  utter. 
As  he  piled  up  the  Invective,  he  noticed  an  omi- 
nous restiveness  in  the  congregation — murmurs, 
clenching  of  hands,  dark  looks.  He  saw  the  pul- 
pit as  yet  another  trap  laid  for  him  by  the  gods. 
He  had  walked  straight  Into  It:  another  moment, 
and  he  might  be  dragged  down,  overwhelmed  by 
numbers,  torn  limb  from  limb.  All  that  was  In 
him  of  quelling  power  he  put  hastily  into  his  eyes, 
and  manoeuvred  his  tongue  to  gentler  discourse, 
deprecating  his  right  to  judge  "this  lady,"  and 
merely  pointing  the  marvel,  the  awful  though 
noble  folly,  of  his  resolve.  He  ended  on  a  note 
of  quiet  pathos.  "To-night  I  shall  be  among  the 
shades.     There  be  not  you,  my  brothers." 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  241 

Good  though  the  sermon  was  in  style  and  senti- 
ment, the  flaw  in  its  reasoning  was  too  patent  for 
any  converts  to  be  made.  As  he  walked  out  of 
the  quadrangle,  the  Duke  felt  the  hopelessness  of 
his  cause.  Still  he  battled  bravely  for  it  up  the 
High,  waylaying,  cajoling,  commanding,  offering 
vast  bribes.  He  carried  his  crusade  into  the 
Loder,  and  thence  into  Vincent's,  and  out  into  the 
street  again,  eager,  untiring,  unavailing:  every- 
where he  found  his  precept  checkmated  by  his 
example. 

The  sight  of  The  MacQuern  coming  out  top- 
speed  from  the  Market,  with  a  large  but  inex- 
pensive bunch  of  flowers,  reminded  him  of  the 
luncheon  that  was  to  be.  Never  to  throw  over 
an  engagement  was  for  him,  as  we  have  seen,  a 
point  of  honour.  But  this  particular  engagement 
— hateful,  when  he  accepted  it,  by  reason  of  his 
love — was  now  impossible  for  the  reason  which 
had  made  him  take  so  ignominiously  to  his  heels 
this  morning.  He  curtly  told  the  Scot  not  to 
expect  him. 

"Is  she  not  coming?"  gasped  the  Scot,  with 
quick  suspicion. 

"Oh,"  said  the  Duke,  turning  on  his  heel, 
"she  doesn't  know  that  I  shan't  be  there.  You 
may  count  on  her."  This  he  took  to  be  the  very 
truth,  and  he  was  glad  to  have  made  of  it  a 
thrust  at  the  man  who  had  so  uncouthly  asserted 
himself  last  night.     He  could  not  help   smiling, 


242  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

though,  at  this  little  resentment  erect  after  the 
cataclysm  that  had  swept  away  all  else.  'J'hen  he 
smiled  to  think  how  uneasy  Zuleika  would  be 
at  his  absence.  What  agonies  of  suspense  she 
must  have  had  all  this  morning!  He  imagined 
her  silent  at  the  luncheon,  with  a  vacant  gaze  at 
the  door,  eating  nothing  at  all.  And  he  became 
aware  that  he  was  rather  hungry.  He  had  done 
all  he  could  to  save  young  Oxford.  Now  for 
some  sandwiches !     He  went  into  the  Junta. 

As  he  rang  the  dining-room  bell,  his  eyes  rested 
on  the  miniature  of  Nellie  O'Mora.  And  the  eyes 
of  Nellie  O'Mora  seemed  to  meet  his  in  re- 
proach. Just  as  she  may  have  gazed  at  Greddon 
when  he  cast  her  off,  so  now  did  she  gaze  at  him 
who  a  few  hours  ago  had  refused  to  honour  her 
memory. 

Yes,  and  many  other  eyes  than  hers  rebuked 
him.  It  was  around  the  walls  of  this  room  that 
hung  those  presentments  of  the  Junta  as  fo- 
cussed,  year  after  year,  in  a  certain  corner  of 
Tom  Quad,  by  Messrs.  Hills  and  Saunders.  All 
around,  the  members  of  the  little  hierarchy,  a 
hierarchy  ever  changing  in  all  but  youth  and  a 
certain  sternness  of  aspect  that  comes  at  the  mo- 
ment of  being  immortalised,  w^ere  gazing  forth 
now  with  a  sternness  beyond  their  wont.  Not  one 
of  them  but  had  in  his  day  handed  on  loyally 
the  praise  of  Nellie  O'Mora,  in  the  form  their 
Founder  had  ordained.     And  the  Duke's  revolt 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  243 

last  night  had  so  incensed  them  that  they  would, 
if  they  could,  have  come  down  from  their  frames 
and  walked  straight  out  of  the  club,  in  chrono- 
logical order — first,  the  men  of  the  'sixties,  almost 
as  near  in  time  to  Greddon  as  to  the  Duke,  all  so 
gloriously  be-whiskered  and  cravated,  but  how 
faded  now,  alas,  by  exposure;  and  last  of  all  in 
the  procession  and  angrier  perhaps  than  any  of 
them,  the  Duke  himself — the  Duke  of  a  year  ago, 
President  and  sole  Member. 

But,  as  he  gazed  into  the  eyes  of  Nellie 
O'Mora  now,  Dorset  needed  not  for  penitence 
the  reproaches  of  his  past  self  or  of  his  fore- 
runners. "Sweet  girl,"  he  murmured,  "forgive 
me.  I  was  mad.  I  was  under  the  sway  of  a 
deplorable  infatuation.  It  is  past.  See,"  he 
murmured  with  a  delicacy  of  feeling  that  justi- 
fied the  untruth,  "I  am  come  here  for  the  express 
purpose  of  undoing  my  impiety."  And,  turning 
to  the  club-waiter  who  at  this  moment  answered 
the  bell,  he  said  "Bring  me  a  glass  of  port,  please, 
Barrett."    Of  sandwiches  he  said  nothing. 

At  the  word  "See"  he  had  stretched  one  hand 
towards  Nellie;  the  other  he  had  laid  on  his  heart, 
where  it  seemed  to  encounter  some  sort  of  hard 
obstruction.  This  he  vaguely  fingered,  wonder- 
ing what  it  might  be,  while  he  gave  his  order  to 
Barrett.  With  a  sudden  cry  he  dipped  his  hand 
into  his  breast-pocket  and  drew  forth  the  bottle 
he    had    borne    away    from    Mr.    Druce's.      He 


244  ZULF.IKA    DOBSON 

snatched  out  liis  watch:  one  o'clock! — fiiteen 
minutes  overdue.  ^ViKlly  he  called  the  waiter 
back.  "A  tea-spoon,  quick!  No  port.  A  wine- 
glass and  a  tea-spoon.  And — for  I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  Barrett,  that  your  mission  is  of  an 
urgency  beyond  conjecture — take  lightning  for 
your  model.     Go !" 

Agitation  mastered  him.  He  tried  vainly  to 
feel  his  pulse,  well  knowing  that  if  he  found  it  he 
could  deduce  nothing  from  its  action.  He  saw 
himself  haggard  In  the  looking-glass.  Would 
Barrett  never  come?  "Every  two  hours" — the 
directions  were  explicit.  Had  he  delivered  him- 
self into  the  gods'  hands?  The  eyes  of  Nellie 
O'Mora  were  on  him  compassionately;  and  all 
the  eyes  of  his  forerunners  were  on  him  in  austere 
scorn:  "See,"  they  seemed  to  be  saying,  "the 
chastisement  of  last  night's  blasphemy."  Vio- 
lently, insistently,  he  rang  the  bell. 

In  rushed  Barrett  at  last.  From  the  tea-spoon 
into  the  wine-glass  the  Duke  poured  the  draught 
of  salvation,  and  then,  raising  it  aloft,  he  looked 
around  at  his  fore-runners  and  in  a  firm  voice 
cried  "Gentlemen,  I  give  you  Nellie  O'Mora,  the 
fairest  witch  that  ever  was  or  will  be."  He 
drained  his  glass,  heaved  the  deep  sigh  of  a 
double  satisfaction,  dismissed  with  a  glance  the 
wondering  Barrett,  and  sat  down. 

He  was  glad  to  be  able  to  face  Nellie  with  a 
clear  conscience.    Her  eyes  were  not  less  sad  now, 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  245 

but  it  seemed  to  him  that  their  sadness  came  of 
a  knowledge  that  she  would  never  see  him  again. 
She  seemed  to  be  saying  to  him  "Had  you  lived 
in  my  day,  It  is  you  that  I  would  have  loved,  not 
Greddon."  And  he  made  silent  answer,  "Had 
you  lived  in  my  day,  I  should  have  been  Dobson- 
proof."  He  realised,  however,  that  to  Zuleika  he 
owed  the  tenderness  he  now  felt  for  Miss 
O'Mora.  It  was  Zuleika  that  had  cured  him  of 
his  aseity.  She  it  was  that  had  made  his  heart 
a  warm  and  negotiable  thing.  Yes,  and  that  was 
the  final  cruelty.  To  love  and  be  loved — this,  he 
had  come  to  know,  was  all  that  mattered.  Yes- 
terday, to  love  and  die  had  seemed  felicity  enough. 
Now  he  knew  that  the  secret,  the  open  secret,  of 
happiness  was  in  mutual  love — a  state  that  needed 
not  the  fillip  of  death.  And  he  had  to  die  with- 
out having  ever  lived.  Admiration,  homage,  fear, 
he  had  sown  broadcast.  The  one  woman  who 
had  loved  him  had  turned  to  stone  because  he 
loved  her.  Death  would  lose  much  of  its  sting 
for  him  if  there  were  somewhere  in  the  world 
just  one  woman,  however  lowly,  whose  heart 
would  be  broken  by  his  dying.  What  a  pity  Nellie 
O'Mora  was  not  really  extant! 

Suddenly  he  recalled  certain  words  lightly 
spoken  yesterday  by  Zuleika.  She  had  told  him 
he  was  loved  by  the  girl  who  waited  on  him — the 
daughter  of  his  landlady.  Was  this  so?  He  had 
seen  no  sign  of  it,  had  received  no  token  of  it. 


246  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

But,  after  all,  how  should  he  have  seen  a  sign  of 
anything  in  one  whom  he  had  never  consciously 
visualised?  That  she  had  never  thrust  herself 
on  his  notice  might  mean  merely  that  she  had  been 
well  brought-up.  What  likelier  than  that  the 
daughter  of  Mrs.  Batch,  that  worthy  soul,  had 
been  well  brought  up? 

Here,  at  any  rate,  was  the  chance  of  a  new 
element  in  his  life,  or  rather  in  his  death.  Here, 
possibly,  was  a  maiden  to  mourn  him.  He  would 
lunch  in  his  rooms. 

With  a  farewell  look  at  Nellie's  miniature,  he 
took  the  medicine-bottle  from  the  table,  and  went 
quickly  out.  The  heavens  had  grown  steadily 
darker  and  darker,  the  air  more  sulphurous  and 
baleful.  And  the  High  had  a  strangely  woebe- 
gone look,  being  all  forsaken  by  youth,  in  this 
hour  of  luncheon.  Even  so  would  its  look  be  all 
to-morrow,  thought  the  Duke,  and  for  many  mor- 
rows. Well  he  had  done  what  he  could.  He 
was  free  now  to  brighten  a  little  his  own  last 
hours.  He  hastened  on,  eager  to  see  the  land- 
lady's daughter.  He  wondered  what  she  was  like, 
and  whether  she  really  loved  him. 

As  he  threw  open  the  door  of  his  sitting-room, 
he  was  aware  of  a  rustle,  a  rush,  a  cry.  In  an- 
other instant,  he  was  aware  of  Zuleika  Dobson 
at  his  feet,  at  his  knees,  clasping  him  to  her,  sob- 
bing, laughing,  sobbing. 


XVI 

For  what  happened  a  few  moments  later  you 
must  not  blame  him.  Some  measure  of  force  was 
the  only  way  out  of  an  impossible  situation.  It 
was  in  vain  that  he  commanded  the  young  lady 
to  let  go :  she  did  but  cling  the  closer.  It  was 
in  vain  that  he  tried  to  disentangle  himself  of 
her  by  standing  first  on  one  foot,  then  on  the 
other,  and  veering  sharply  on  his  heel:  she  did 
but  sway  as  though  hinged  to  him.  He  had  no 
choice  but  to  grasp  her  by  the  wrists,  cast  her 
aside,  and  step  clear  of  her  into  the  room. 

Her  hat,  gauzily  basking  with  a  pair  of  long 
white  gloves  on  one  of  his  arm-chairs,  proclaimed 
that  she  had  come  to  stay. 

Nor  did  she  rise.  Propped  on  one  elbow,  with 
heaving  bosom  and  parted  lips,  she  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  realise  what  had  been  done  to  her. 
Through  her  undried  tears  her  eyes  shone  up  to 
him. 

He  asked:  "To  what  am  I  indebted  for  this 
visit?" 

"Ah,  say  that  again!"  she  murmured.  "Your 
voice   is  music." 

He  repeated  his  question. 
247 


248  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

"Music!"  she  said  dreamily;  and  such  is  the 
force  of  habit  that  "I  don't,"  she  added,  "know 
anything  about  music,  really.  But  I  know  what 
I  like." 

"Had  you  not  better  get  up  from  the  floor?" 
he  said.  "The  door  is  open,  and  any  one  who 
passed  might  see  you." 

Softly  she  stroked  the  carpet  with  the  palms 
of  her  hands.  "Happy  carpet!"  she  crooned. 
"Aye,  happy  the  very  women  that  wove  the 
threads  that  are  trod  by  the  feet  of  my  beloved 
master.  But  hark!  he  bids  his  slave  rise  and 
stand  before  him !" 

Just  after  she  had  risen,  a  figure  appeared  In 
the  doorway. 

"I  beg  pardon,  your  Grace;  Mother  wants  to 
know,  will  you  be  lunching  in?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Duke.  "I  will  ring  when  I  am 
ready."  And  it  dawned  on  him  that  this  girl,  who 
perhaps  loved  him,  was,  according  to  all  known 
standards,  extraordinarily  pretty. 

"Will — "  she  hesitated,  "will  Miss  Dobson 
be " 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  shall  be  alone."  And  there 
was  in  the  girl's  parting  half-glance  at  Zuleika 
that  which  told  him  he  was  truly  loved,  and  made 
him  the  more  Impatient  of  his  offensive  and  ac- 
cursed visitor. 

"You  want  to  be  rid  of  me?"  asked  Zuleika, 
when  the  girl  was  gone. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  249 

"I  have  no  wish  to  be  rude;  but — since  you 
force  me  to  say  it — yes." 

"Then  take  me,"  she  cried,  throwing  back  her 
arms,  "and  throw  me  out  of  the  window." 

He  smiled  coldly. 

"You  think  I  don't  mean  it?  You  think  I  would 
struggle?  Try  me."  She  let  herself  droop  side- 
ways, in  an  attitude  limp  and  portable.  "Try 
me,"  she  repeated. 

"All  this  Is  very  well  conceived,  no  doubt," 
said  he,  "and  well  executed.  But  it  happens  to 
be  otiose." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  you  may  set  your  mind  at  rest.  I  am 
not  going  to  back  out  of  my  promise." 

Zuleika  flushed.  "You  are  cruel.  I  would  give 
the  world  and  all  not  to  have  written  you  that 
hateful  letter.  Forget  it,  forget  it,  for  pity's  sake  !" 

The  Duke  looked  searchingly  at  her.  "You 
mean  that  you  now  wish  to  release  me  from  my 
promise?" 

"Release  you?  As  if  you  were  ever  bound! 
Don't  torture  me !" 

He  wondered  what  deep  game  she  was  playing. 
Very  real,  though,  her  anguish  seemed;  and,  If 
real  It  was,  then — he  stared,  he  gasped — there 
could  be  but  one  explanation.  He  put  It  to  her. 
"You  love  me?" 

"With  all  my  soul." 

His  heart  leapt.     If  she  spoke  truth,  then  in- 


250  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

deed  vengeance  was  his!  But  "What  proof  have 
I  ?"  he  asked  her, 

"Proof?  Have  men  absolutely  no  intuition?, 
If  you  need  proof,  produce  it.  Where  are  my 
ear-rings?" 

"Your  ear-rings?     W^hy?" 

Impatiently  she  pointed  to  two  white  pearls 
that  fastened  the  front  of  her  blouse.  "These 
are  your  studs.  It  was  from  them  I  had  the  great 
first  hint  this  morning." 

"Black  and  pink,  were  they  not,  when  you  took 
them?" 

"Of  course.  And  then  I  forgot  that  I  had 
them.  When  I  undressed,  they  must  have  rolled 
on  to  the  carpet.  Melisande  found  them  this 
morning  when  she  was  making  the  room  ready 
for  me  to  dress.  That  was  just  after  she  came 
back  from  bringing  you  my  first  letter.  I  was 
bewildered.  I  doubted.  Might  not  the  pearls 
have  gone  back  to  their  natural  state  simply 
through  being  yours  no  more?  That  is  why  I 
wrote  again  to  you,  my  own  darling — a  frantic 
little  questioning  letter.  When  I  heard  how  you 
had  torn  it  up,  I  knew,  I  knew  that  the  pearls  had 
not  mocked  me.  I  telescoped  my  toilet  and  came 
rushing  round  to  you.  How  many  hours  have 
I  been  waiting  for  you?" 

The  Duke  had  drawn  her  ear-rings  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  and  was  contemplating  them  in 
the  palm  of  his  hand.     Blanched,  both  of  them, 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  251 

yes.  He  laid  them  on  the  table.  "Take  them," 
he  said. 

"No,"  she  shuddered.  "I  could  never  forget 
that  once  they  were  both  black."  She  flung  them 
into  the  fender.  "Oh  John,"  she  cried,  turning 
to  him  and  falling  again  to  her  knees,  "I  do  so 
want  to  forget  what  I  have  been.  I  want  to  atone. 
You  think  you  can  drive  me  out  of  your  life.  You 
cannot,  darling — since  you  won't  kill  me.  Always 
I  shall  follow  you  on  my  knees,  thus." 

He  looked  down  at  her  over  his  folded  arms. 

"I  am  not  going  to  back  out  of  my  promise,"  he 
repeated. 

She  stopped  her  ears. 

With  a  stern  joy  he  unfolded  his  arms,  took 
some  papers  from  his  breast-pocket,  and,  selecting 
one  of  them,  handed  it  to  her.  It  was  the  telegram 
sent  by  his  steward. 

She  read  It.  With  a  stern  joy  he  watched  her 
reading  it. 

Wild-eyed,  she  looked  up  from  It  to  him,  tried 
to  speak,  and  swerved  down  senseless. 

He  had  not  foreseen  this.  "Help  !"  he  vaguely 
cried — was  she  not  a  fellow-creature? — and 
rushed  blindly  out  to  his  bedroom,  whence  he 
returned,  a  moment  later,  with  the  water-jug.  He 
dipped  his  hand,  and  sprinkled  the  upturned  face 
(Dew-drops  on  a  white  rose?  But  some  other, 
sharper  analogy  hovered  to  him).  He  dipped 
and  sprinkled.     The  water-beads  broke,  mingled 


252  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

— rivulets  now.  He  dipped  and  flung,  then  caught 
the  horrible  analogy  and  rebounded. 

It  was  at  tliis  moment  that  Zuleika  opened  her 
eyes.  "Where  am  I?"  She  weakly  raised  her- 
self on  one  elbow;  and  the  suspension  of  the 
Duke's  hatred  would  have  been  repealed  simul- 
taneously with  that  of  her  consciousness,  had  it 
not  already  been  repealed  by  the  analogy.  She 
put  a  hand  to  her  face,  then  looked  at  the  wet 
palm  wonderingly,  looked  at  the  Duke,  saw  the 
water-jug  beside  him.  She,  too,  it  seemed,  had 
caught  the  analogy;  for  with  a  wan  smile  she  said 
"We  are  quits  now,  John,  aren't  we?" 

Her  poor  little  jest  drew  to  the  Duke's  face  no 
answering  smile,  did  but  make  hotter  the  blush 
there.  The  wave  of  her  returning  memory  swept 
on — swept  up  to  her  with  a  roar  the  instant  past. 
"Oh,"  she  cried,  staggering  to  her  feet,  "the  owls, 
the  owls!" 

Vengeance  was  his,  and  "Yes,  there,"  he  said, 
"is  the  ineluctable  hard  fact  you  wake  to.  The 
owls  have  hooted.  The  gods  hav^e  spoken.  This 
day  your  wish  is  to  be  fulfilled." 

"The  owls  have  hooted.  The  gods  have 
spoken.  This  day — oh,  it  must  not  be,  John  I 
Heaven  have  mercy  on  me!" 

"The  unerring  owls  have  hooted.  The  dis- 
piteous and  humorous  gods  have  spoken.  Miss 
Dobson,  it  has  to  be.  And  let  me  remind  you," 
he  added,  with  a  glance  at  his  watch,  "that  you 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  253 

ought  not  to  keep  The  MacQuern  waiting  for 
luncheon." 

"That  is  unworthy  of  you,"  she  said.  There 
was  In  her  eyes  a  look  that  made  the  words  sound 
as  If  they  had  been  spoken  by  a  dumb  animal. 

"You  have  sent  him  an  excuse?" 

"No,  I  have  forgotten  him." 

"That  Is  unworthy  of  you.  After  all,  he  Is 
going  to  die  for  you,  like  the  rest  of  us.  I  am  but 
one  of  a  number,  you  know.  Use  your  sense  of 
proportion." 

"If  I  do  that,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "you 
may  not  be  pleased  by  the  issue.  I  may  find  that 
whereas  yesterday  I  was  great  In  my  sinfulness, 
and  to-day  am  great  in  my  love,  you,  in  your  hate 
of  me,  are  small.  I  may  find  that  what  I  had 
taken  to  be  a  great  indifference  is  nothing  but  a 
very  small  hate.  .  .  Ah,  I  have  wounded  you? 
Forgive  me,  a  weak  woman,  talking  at  random  in 
her  wretchedness.  Oh  John,  John,  If  I  thought 
you  small,  my  love  would  but  take  on  the  crown 
of  pity.  Don't  forbid  me  to  call  you  John.  I 
looked  you  up  In  Debrett  while  I  was  waiting  for 
you.  That  seemed  to  bring  you  nearer  to  me.  So 
many  other  names  you  have,  too.  I  remember 
you  told  me  them  all  yesterday,  here  In  this  room 
— not  twenty-four  hours  ago.  Hours?  Years!" 
She  laughed  hysterically.  "John,  don't  you  see 
why  I  won't  stop  talking?  It's  because  I  dare 
not  think." 


254  ZULFIKA    DOBSON 

'■"lOiulcr  in  Balliol,"  he  su;i\cly  saiJ,  "you  will 
lind  the  matter  of  my  death  easier  to  forget  than 
here."  He  took  her  hat  and  gloves  from  the 
arm-chair,  and  held  them  carefully  out  to  her; 
hut  she  did  not  take  them. 

"I  give  you  three  minutes,"  he  told  her.  "Two 
minutes,  that  is,  in  which  to  make  yourself  tidy 
before  the  mirror.  A  third  in  which  to  say  good- 
bye and  be  outside  the  front-door." 

"If  I   refuse?" 

"You  will  not." 

"If  I  do?" 

"I  shall  send  for  a  policeman." 

She  looked  well  at  him.  "Yes,"  she  slowly 
said,  "I  think  you  would  do  that." 

She  took  her  things  from  him,  and  laid  them 
by  the  mirror.  With  a  high  hand  she  quelled  the 
excesses  of  her  hair — some  of  the  curls  still 
agleam  with  w'ater — and  knowingly  poised  and 
pinned  her  hat.  Then,  after  a  few  swift  touches 
and  passes  at  neck  and  waist,  she  took  her  gloves 
and,  wheeling  round  to  him,  "There!"  she  said, 
"I  have  been  quick." 

"Admirably,"  he  allowed. 

"Quick  in  more  than  meets  the  eye,  John. 
Spiritually  quick.  You  saw  me  putting  on  my 
hat;  you  did  not  see  love  taking  on  the  crown  of 
pity,  and  me  bonneting  her  with  it,  tripping  her 
up  and  trampling  the  life  out  of  her.  Oh,  a  most 
cold-blooded  business,  John!     Had  to  be  done, 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  255 

though.  No  other  way  out.  So  I  just  used  my 
sense  of  proportion,  as  you  rashly  bade  me,  and 
then  hardened  my  heart  at  sight  of  you  as  you 
are.  One  of  a  number?  Yes,  and  a  quite  un- 
lovable unit.  So  I  am  all  right  again.  And  now, 
where  is  Balliol?     Far  from  here?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  choking  a  little,  as  might 
a  card-player  who,  having  been  dealt  a  splendid 
hand,  and  having  played  it  with  flawless  skill,  has 
yet — damn  it! — lost  the  odd  trick.  "Balliol  is 
quite  near.  At  the  end  of  this  street  in  fact.  I 
can  show  it  to  you  from  the  front-door." 

Yes,  he  had  controlled  himself.  But  this,  he 
furiously  felt,  did  not  make  him  look  the  less  a 
fool.  What  ought  he  to  have  saidf  He  prayed, 
as  he  followed  the  victorious  young  woman  down- 
stairs, that  I' esprit  de  Vescalier  might  befall  him. 
Alas,  it  did  not. 

"By  the  way,"  she  said,  when  he  had  shown 
her  where  Balliol  lay,  "have  you  told  anybody 
that  you  aren't  dying  just  for  me?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  have  preferred  not  to." 

"Then  officially,  as  it  were,  and  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  you  die  for  me?  Then  all's  well  that 
ends  well.  Shall  we  say  good-bye  here?  I  shall 
be  on  the  Judas  Barge;  but  I  suppose  there  will 
be  a  crush,  as  yesterday?" 

"Sure  to  be.  There  always  is  on  the  last  night 
of  the  Eights,  you  know.    Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  little  John — small  John,"  she  cried 
across  her  shoulder,  having  the  last  word. 


XVII 

He  might  not  have  grudged  her  the  last  word, 
had  she  properly  needed  it.  Its  utter  superfluity — 
the  perfection  of  her  victory  without  it — was 
what  galled  him.  Yes,  she  had  outflanked  him, 
taken  him  unawares,  and  he  had  fired  not  one 
shot.  Esprit  dc  V escalicr — it  was  as  he  went  up- 
stairs that  he  saw  how  he  might  yet  have  snatched 
from  her,  if  not  the  victory,  the  palm.  Of  course 
he  ought  to  have  laughed  aloud — "Capital, 
capital !  You  really  do  deserve  to  fool  me.  But 
ah,  yours  is  a  love  that  can't  be  dissembled. 
Never  was  man  by  maiden  loved  more  ardently 
than  I  by  you,  my  poor  girl,  at  this  moment." 

And  stay! — what  if  she  really  had  been  but 
pretending  to  have  killed  her  love?  He  paused 
on  the  threshold  of  his  room.  The  sudden  doubt 
made  his  lost  chance  the  more  sickening.  Yet 
was  the  doubt  dear  to  him  .  .  .  What  likelier, 
after  all,  than  that  she  had  been  pretending?  She 
had  already  twitted  him  with  his  lack  of  intuition. 
He  had  not  seen  that  she  loved  him  when  she 
certainly  did  love  him.  He  had  needed  the  pearls' 
demonstration  of  that. — The  pearls!  They 
would  betray  her.     He  darted  to  the  fender,  and 

256 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  257 

one  of  them  he  espied  there  instantly — white? 
A  rather  flushed  white,  certainly.  For  the  other 
he  had  to  peer  down.  There  it  lay,  not  very  dis- 
tinct on  the  hearth's  black-leading. 

He  turned  away.  He  blamed  himself  for  not 
dismissing  from  his  mind  the  hussy  he  had  dis- 
missed from  his  room.  Oh  for  an  ounce  of  civet 
and  a  few  poppies !  The  water-jug  stood  as  a 
reminder  of  the  hateful  visit  and  of  .  .  .  He 
took  it  hastily  away  into  his  bedroom.  There  he 
washed  his  hands.  The  fact  that  he  had  touched 
Zuleika  gave  to  this  ablution  a  symbolism  that 
made  it  the  more  refreshing. 

Civet,  poppies?  Was  there  not,  at  his  call,  a 
sweeter  perfume,  a  stronger  anodyne?  He  rang 
the  bell,  almost  caressingly. 

His  heart  beat  at  sound  of  the  clinking  and 
rattling  of  the  tray  borne  up  the  stairs.  She  was 
coming,  the  girl  who  loved  him,  the  girl  whose 
heart  would  be  broken  when  he  died.  Yet,  when 
the  tray  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  she  behind 
it,  the  tray  took  precedence  of  her  in  his  soul  not 
less  than  in  his  sight.  Twice,  after  an  arduous 
morning,  had  his  luncheon  been  postponed,  and 
the  coming  of  it  now  made  intolerable  the  pangs 
of  his  hunger. 

Also,  while  the  girl  laid  the  table-cloth,  it  oc- 
curred to  him  how  flimsy,  after  all,  was  the  evi- 
dence that  she  loved  him.  Suppose  she  did  noth- 
ing of  the  kindl     At  the  Junta,  he  had  foreseen 


258  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

no  difficulty  in  askinjj;  her.  Now  he  found  himself 
a  prey  to  cnibarrassnient.  He  wondered  why. 
I  le  had  not  failed  in  llow  of  gracious  words  to 
Nellie  O'Mora.  Well,  a  miniature  by  Iloppner 
was  one  thing,  a  landlady's  live  daughter  was 
another.  At  any  rate,  he  must  prime  himself 
with  food.  He  wished  Mrs.  Batch  had  sent  up 
something  more  calorific  than  cold  salmon.  He 
asked  her  daughter  what  was  to  follow. 

"There's  a  pigeon-pie,  your  Grace." 

"Cold?  Then  please  ask  your  mother  to  heat 
it  in  the  oven — quickly.     Anything  after  that?" 

"A  custard  pudding,  your  Grace." 

"Cold?  Let  this,  too,  be  heated.  And  bring 
up  a  bottle  of  champagne,  please;  and — and  a 
bottle  of  port." 

His  was  a  head  that  had  always  hitherto  defied 
the  grape.  But  he  thought  that  to-day,  by  all  he 
had  gone  through,  by  all  the  shocks  he  had  suf- 
fered, and  the  strains  he  had  steeled  himself 
to  bear,  as  well  as  by  the  actual  malady  that 
gripped  him,  he  might  perchance  have  been  sapped 
enough  to  experience  by  reaction  that  cordial  glow 
of  which  he  had  now  and  again  seen  symptoms  in 
his  fellows. 

Nor  was  he  altogether  disappointed  of  this 
hope.  As  the  meal  progressed,  and  the  last  of 
the  champagne  sparkled  in  his  glass,  certain  things 
said  to  him  by  Zuleika — certain  implied  criticisms 
that  had   rankled,  yes — lost  their  power  to   dis- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  259 

commode  him.  He  was  able  to  smile  at  the  im- 
pertinences of  an  angry  woman,  the  tantrums  of 
a  tenth-rate  conjurer  told  to  go  away.  He  felt 
he  had  perhaps  acted  harshly.  With  all  her 
faults,  she  had  adored  him.  Yes,  he  had  been 
arbitrary.  There  seemed  to  be  a  strain  of  bru- 
tality in  his  nature.  PoorZuleika!  He  was  glad 
for  her  that  she  had  contrived  to  master  her  in- 
fatuation .  .  .  Enough  for  him  that  he  was  loved 
by  this  exquisite  meek  girl  who  had  served  him 
at  the  feast.  Anon,  when  he  summoned  her  to 
clear  the  things  away,  he  would  bid  her  tell  him 
the  tale  of  her  lowly  passion.  He  poured  a  second 
glass  of  port,  sipped  it,  quaffed  it,  poured  a  third. 
The  grey  gloom  of  the  weather  did  but,  as  he 
eyed  the  bottle,  heighten  his  sense  of  the  rich  sun- 
shine so  long  ago  Imprisoned  by  the  vintner  and 
now  released  to  make  glad  his  soul.  Even  so  to 
be  released  was  the  love  pent  for  him  In  the  heart 
of  this  sweet  girl.  Would  that  he  loved  her  In 
return!   .  .  .  Why  not? 

"Prius  Insolentem 
Serva  Briseis  niveo  colore 
Movit  Achlllem." 

Nor  were  it  gracious  to  Invite  an  avowal  of  love 
and  offer  none  In  return.  Yet,  yet,  expansive 
though  his  mood  was,  he  could  not  pretend  to 
himself  that  he  was  about  to  feel  In  this  girl's 
presence  anything  but  gratitude.     He  might  pre- 


26o  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

tend  to  her?  Deception  were  a  very  poor  return 
indeed  for  all  her  kindness.  Besides,  it  might 
turn  her  head.  Some  small  token  of  his  gratitude 
— some  trinket  by  which  to  remember  him — was 
all  that  he  could  allow  himself  to  offer  . 
What  trinket?    Would  she  like  to  have  one  of  his 

scarf-pins?     Studs?     Still  more  abs Ah!  he 

had  it,  he  literally  and  most  providentially  had  it, 
there.  In  the  fender:  a  pair  of  ear-rings! 

He  plucked  the  pink  pearl  and  the  black  from 
where  they  lay,  and  rang  the  bell. 

His  sense  of  dramatic  propriety  needed  that 
the  girl  should,  before  he  addressed  her,  perform 
her  task  of  clearing  the  table.  If  she  had  it  to 
perform  after  telling  her  love,  and  after  receiving 
his  gift  and  his  farewell,  the  bathos  would  be 
distressing  for  them  both. 

But,  while  he  watched  her  at  her  task,  he  did 
wish  she  would  be  a  little  quicker.  For  the  glow 
in  him  seemed  to  be  cooling  momently.  He  wished 
he  had  had  more  than  three  glasses  from  the 
crusted  bottle  which  she  was  putting  away  into 
the  chiffonier.  Down,  doubt!  Down,  sense  of 
disparity!  The  moment  was  at  hand.  Would  he 
let  it  slip?  Now  she  was  folding  up  the  table- 
cloth, now  she  w^as  going. 

"Stay!"  he  uttered.  "I  have  something  to  say 
to  you."     The  girl  turned  to  him. 

He  forced  his  eyes  to  meet  hers.  "I  under- 
stand," he  said  In  a  constrained  voice,  "that  you 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  261 

regard  me  with  sentiments  of  something  more 
than  esteem. — Is  this  so?" 

The  girl  had  stepped  quickly  back,  and  her 
face  was  scarlet. 

"Nay,"  he  said,  having  to  go  through  with  it 
now,  "there  is  no  cause  for  embarrassment.  And 
I  am  sure  you  will  acquit  me  of  wanton  curiosity. 
Is  it  a  fact  that  you — love  me?" 

She  tried  to  speak,  could  not.  But  she  nodded 
her  head. 

The  Duke,  much  relieved,  came  nearer  to  her. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked  gently. 

"Katie,"  she  was  able  to  gasp. 

"Well,  Katie,  how  long  have  you  loved  me?" 

"Ever  since,"  she  faltered,  "ever  since  you  came 
to  engage  the  rooms." 

"You  are  not,  of  course,  given  to  idolising  any 
tenant  of  your  mother's?" 

"No." 

"May  I  boast  myself  the  first  possessor  of  your 
heart?" 

"Yes."  She  had  become  very  pale  now,  and 
was  trembling  painfully. 

"And  may  I  assume  that  your  love  for  me  has 
been  entirely  disinterested?  .  .  .  You  do  not 
catch  my  meaning?  I  will  put  my  question  in  an- 
other way.  In  loving  me,  you  never  supposed  me 
likely  to  return  your  love?" 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him  quickly,  but  at  once 
her  eyelids  fluttered  down  again. 


262  ZULF.IKA    DOBSON 

"Come,  come!"  said  the  Duke.  "My  question 
is  a  plain  one.  Did  you  ever  for  an  instant  sup- 
pose, Katie,  that  I  might  come  to  love  you?" 

"No,"  she  said  in  a  whisper;  "I  never  dared 
to  hope  that." 

"Precisely,"  said  he.  "You  never  imagined 
that  you  had  anything  to  gain  by  your  affection. 
You  were  not  contriving  a  trap  for  me.  You  were 
upheld  by  no  hope  of  becoming  a  young  Duchess, 
with  more  frocks  than  you  could  wear  and  more 
dross  than  you  could  scatter.  I  am  glad.  I  am 
touched.  You  are  the  first  woman  that  has  loved 
me  in  that  way.  Or  rather,"  he  muttered,  "the 
first  but  one.  And  she  .  .  .  Answer  me,"  he 
said,  standing  over  the  girl,  and  speaking  with  a 
great  intensity.  "If  I  were  to  tell  you  that  I  loved 
you,  would  you  cease  to  love  me?" 

"Oh  your  Grace!"  cried  the  girl.  "Why  no  I 
I  never  dared " 

"Enough!"  he  said.  "The  catechism  Is  ended. 
I  have  something  which  I  should  like  to  give  you. 
Are  your  ears  pierced?" 

"Yes,  your  Grace." 

"Then,  Katie,  honour  me  by  accepting  this 
present."  So  saying,  he  placed  in  the  girl's  hand 
the  black  pearl  and  the  pink.  The  sight  of  them 
banished  for  a  moment  all  other  emotions  in  their 
recipient.     She  forgot  herself.     "Lor!"  she  said. 

"I  hope  you  will  wear  them  always  for  my 
sake,"  said  the  Duke. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  263 

She  had  expressed  herself  In  the  monosyllable. 
No  words  came  to  her  lips,  but  to  her  eyes  many 
tears,  through  which  the  pearls  were  visible. 
They  whirled  in  her  bewildered  brain  as  a  token 
that  she  was  loved — loved  by  him,  though  but 
yesterday  he  had  loved  another.  It  was  all  so  sud- 
den, so  beautiful.  You  might  have  knocked  her 
down  (she  says  so  to  this  day)  with  a  feather. 
Seeing  her  agitation,  the  Duke  pointed  to  a  chair, 
bade  her  be  seated. 

Her  mind  was  cleared  by  the  new  posture. 
Suspicion  crept  Into  It,  followed  by  alarm.  She 
looked  at  the  ear-rings,  then  up  at  the  Duke. 

"No,"  said  he,  misinterpreting  the  question  In 
her  eyes,  "they  are  real  pearls." 

"It  Isn't  that,"  she  quavered,  "It  Is — It  Is " 

"That  they  were  given  to  me  by  Miss  Dob- 
son?" 

"Oh,  they  were,  were  they?  Then" — Katie 
rose,  throwing  the  pearls  on  the  floor — "I'll  have 
nothing  to  do  with  them.     I  hate  her." 

"So  do  I,"  said  the  Duke,  in  a  burst  of  confi- 
dence. "No,  I  don't,"  he  added  hastily.  "Please 
forget  that  I  said  that," 

It  occurred  to  Katie  that  Miss  Dobson  would 
be  Ill-pleased  that  the  pearls  should  pass  to  her. 
She  picked  them  up. 

"Only — only — "  again  her  doubts  beset  her 
and  she  looked  from  the  pearls  to  the  Duke. 

"Speak  on,"  he  said. 


26+  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

"Oh  you  aren't  playing  with  me,  are  you?  You 
don't  mean  me  harm,  do  you?  I  have  been 
well  brought  up.  I  have  been  warned  against 
things.  And  it  seems  so  strange,  what  you  have 
said  to  me.  You  are  a  Duke,  and  I — I  am 
only—" 

"It  is  the  privilege  of  nobility  to  condescend." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  cried.  "I  see.  Oh  I  was 
wicked  to  doubt  you.  And  love  levels  all,  doesn't 
it?  love  and  the  Board  school.  Our  stations  are 
far  apart,  but  I've  been  educated  far  above  mine. 
I've  learnt  more  than  most  real  ladies  have.  I 
passed  the  Seventh  Standard  when  I  was  only 
just  fourteen.  I  was  considered  one  of  the  sharp- 
est girls  in  the  school.  And  I've  gone  on  learning 
since  then,"  she  continued  eagerly.  "I  utilise  all 
my  spare  moments.  I've  read  twenty-seven  of  the 
Hundred  Best  Books.  I  collect  ferns.  I  play  the 
piano,  whenever  .  .  ."  She  broke  off,  for  she 
remembered  that  her  music  was  always  inter- 
rupted by  the  ringing  of  the  Duke's  bell  and  a 
polite  request  that  it  should  cease. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  of  these  accomplishments. 
They  do  you  great  credit,  I  am  sure.  But — well, 
I  do  not  quite  see  why  you  enumerate  them  just 
now," 

"It  isn't  that  I  am  vain,"  she  pleaded.  "I  only 
mentioned  them  because  .  .  .  oh,  don't  you  see? 
If  I'm  not  ignorant,  I  shan't  disgrace  you.   People 


ZULEIKA-DOBSON  265 

won't  be  so  able  to  say  you've  been  and  thrown 
yourself  away." 

''Thrown  myself  away?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  they'll  make  all  sorts  of  objections,  I 
know.     They'll  all  be  against  me,  and " 

"For  heaven's  sake,  explain  yourself." 

"Your  aunt,  she  looked  a  very  proud  lady — 
very  high  and  hard.  I  thought  so  when  she  came 
here  last  term.  But  you're  of  age.  You're  your 
own  master.  Oh,  I  trust  you;  you'll  stand  by  me. 
If  you  love  me  really  you  won't  listen  to  them." 

"Love  you?     I?    Are  you  mad?" 

Each  stared  at  the  other,  utterly  bewildered. 

The  girl  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  Her 
voice  came  In  a  whisper.  "You've  not  been  play- 
ing a  joke  on  me?  You  meant  what  you  said, 
didn't  you?" 

"What  have  I  said?" 

"You  said  you  loved  me." 

"You  must  be  dreaming." 

"I'm  not.  Here  are  the  ear-rings  you  gave 
me."  She  pinched  them  as  material  proof.  "You 
said  you  loved  me  just  before  you  gave  me  them. 
You  know  you  did.  And  If  I  thought  you'd  been 
laughing  at  me  all  the  time — I'd — I'd" — a  sob 
choked  her  voice — "I'd  throw  them  In  your  face  !" 

"You  must  not  speak  to  me  In  that  manner," 
said  the  Duke  coldly.  "And  let  me  warn  you 
that  this  attempt  to  trap  me  and  intimidate 
me ^" 


266  ZULI'.IKA    DOBSON 

The  girl  had  flung  the  ear-rings  at  his  face. 
She  had  missed  her  mark.  But  this  did  not  ex- 
tenuate the  outrageous  gesture.  He  pointed  to 
the  door.     "Go!"  he  said. 

"Don't  try  that  on!"  she  laughed.  "I  shan't 
go — not  unless  you  drag  me  out.  And  If  you  do 
that,  I'll  raise  the  house.  I'll  have  In  the  neigh- 
bours. I'll  tell  them  all  what  you've  done,  and — " 
But  defiance  melted  in  the  hot  shame  of  humilia- 
tion. "Oh,  you  coward!"  she  gasped.  "You 
coward!"  She  caught  her  apron  to  her  face  and, 
swaying  against  the  wall,  sobbed  pitcously. 

Unaccustomed  to  love-affairs,  the  Duke  could 
not  sail  lightly  over  a  flood  of  woman's  tears.  He 
was  filled  with  pity  for  the  poor  quivering  figure 
against  the  wall.  How  should  he  soothe  her? 
Mechanically  he  picked  up  the  two  pearls  from 
the  carpet,  and  crossed  to  her  side.  He  touched 
her  on  the  shoulder.  She  shuddered  away  from 
him. 

"Don't,"  he  said  gently.  "Don't  cry.  I  can't 
bear  it.  I  have  been  stupid  and  thoughtless. 
What  did  you  say  your  name  was?  'Katie,'  to  be 
sure.  Well,  Katie,  I  want  to  beg  your  pardon. 
I  expressed  myself  badly.  I  was  unhappy  and 
lonely,  and  I  saw  in  you  a  means  of  comfort.  I 
snatched  at  you,  Katie,  as  at  a  straw.  And  then, 
I  suppose,  I  must  have  said  something  which  made 
you  think  I  loved  you.  I  almost  wish  I  did.  I 
don't  wonder  you  threw  the  ear-rings  at  me.   I — 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  267 

I  almost  wish  they  had  hit  me.  .  .  You  see, 
I  have  quite  forgiven  you.  Now  do  you  forgive 
me.  You  will  not  refuse  now  to  wear  the  ear- 
rings. I  gave  them  to  you  as  a  keepsake.  Wear 
them  always  in  memory  of  me.  For  you  will 
never  see  me  again." 

The  girl  had  ceased  from  crying,  and  her  anger 
had  spent  itself  in  sobs.  She  was  gazing  at  him 
woebegone  but  composed. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"You  must  not  ask  that,"  said  he.  "Enough 
that  my  wings  are  spread." 

"Are  you  going  because  of  meT^ 

"Not  in  the  least.  Indeed,  your  devotion  is 
one  of  the  things  which  make  bitter  my  departure. 
And  yet — I  am  glad  you  love  me." 

"Don't  go,"  she  faltered.  He  came  nearer  to 
her,  and  this  time  she  did  not  shrink  from  him. 
"Don't  you  find  the  rooms  comfortable?"  she 
asked,  gazing  up  at  him.  "Have  you  ever  had 
any  complaint  to  make  about  the  attendance?" 

"No,"  said  the  Duke,  "the  attendance  has  al- 
ways been  quite  satisfactory.  I  have  never  felt 
that  so  keenly  as  I  do  to-day." 

"Then  why  are  you  leaving?  Why  are  you 
breaking  my  heart?" 

"Suffice  it  that  I  cannot  do  otherwise.  Hence- 
forth you  will  see  me  no  more.  But  I  doubt  not 
that  in  the  cultivation  of  my  memory  you  will 
jind  some  sort  of  lugubrious  satisfaction.     Seel 


268  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

here  arc  the  ear-rings.     If  you  like,  I  will  put  them 
in  with  my  own  hands." 

She  held  up  her  face  side-ways.  Into  the  lobe 
of  her  left  ear  he  insinuated  the  hook  of  the  black 
pearl.  On  the  cheek  upturned  to  him  there  were 
still  traces  of  tears;  the  eyelashes  were  still 
spangled.  For  all  her  blondness,  they  were  quite 
dark,  these  glistening  eyelashes.  He  had  an  im- 
pulse, which  he  put  from  him.  "Now  the  other 
ear,"  he  said.  The  girl  turned  her  head.  Soon 
the  pink  pearl  was  in  its  place.  Yet  the  girl  did 
not  move.  She  seemed  to  be  waiting.  Nor  did 
the  Duke  himself  seem  to  be  quite  satisfied.  He 
let  his  fingers  dally  with  the  pearl.  Anon,  with  a 
sigh,  he  withdrew  them.  The  girl  looked  up. 
Their  eyes  met.  He  looked  away  from  her.  He 
turned  away  from  her.  "You  may  kiss  my  hand," 
he  murmured,  extending  it  towards  her.  After  a 
pause,  the  warm  pressure  of  her  lips  was  laid  on 
it.  He  sighed,  but  did  not  look  round.  Another 
pause,  a  longer  pause,  and  then  the  clatter  and 
clink  of  the  outgoing  tray. 


XVIII 

Her  actual  offspring  does  not  suffice  a  very 
motherly  woman.  Such  a  woman  was  Mrs. 
Batch.  Had  she  been  blest  with  a  dozen  children, 
she  must  yet  have  regarded  herself  as  also  a 
mother  to  whatever  two  young  gentlemen  were 
lodging  under  her  roof.  Childless  but  for  Katie 
and  Clarence,  she  had  for  her  successive  pairs  of 
tenants  a  truly  vast  fund  of  maternal  feeling  to 
draw  on.  Nor  were  the  drafts  made  in  secret. 
To  every  gentleman,  from  the  outset,  she  pro- 
claimed the  relation  in  which  she  would  stand  to 
him.  Moreover,  always  she  needed  a  strong  filial 
sense  in  return:  this  was  only  fair. 

Because  the  Duke  was  an  orphan,  even  more 
than  because  he  was  a  Duke,  her  heart  had  with 
a  special  rush  gone  out  to  him  when  he  and 
Mr.  Noaks  became  her  tenants.  But,  perhaps 
because  he  had  never  known  a  mother,  he  was 
evidently  quite  incapable  of  conceiving  either 
Mrs.  Batch  as  his  mother  or  himself  as  her  son. 
Indeed,  there  was  that  in  his  manner,  in  his  look, 
which  made  her  falter,  for  once,  in  exposition  of 
her  theory — made  her  postpone  the  matter  to 
269 


270  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

some  more  favourable  time.  That  time  never 
came,  somehow.  Still,  her  solicitude  for  him,  her 
pride  in  him,  her  sense  that  he  was  a  great  credit 
to  her,  rather  waxed  than  waned.  He  was  more 
to  her  (such  are  the  vagaries  of  the  maternal  in- 
stinct) than  Katie  or  Mr.  Noaks:  he  was  as  much 
as  Clarence. 

It  w^as,  therefore,  a  deeply  agitated  woman  who 
now  came  heaving  up  into  the  Duke's  presence. 
His  Grace  was  "giving  notice"?  She  was  sure 
she  begged  his  pardon  for  coming  up  so  sudden. 
But  the  news  was  that  sudden.  Hadn't  her  girl 
made  a  mistake,  maybe?  Girls  were  so  vague- 
like  nowadays.  She  was  sure  it  was  most  kind 
of  him  to  give  those  handsome  ear-rings.  But 
the  thought  of  him  going  off  so  unexpected — 
middle  of  term,  too — with  never  a  why  or  a  but! 
Well! 

In  some  such  welter  of  homely  phrase  (how 
foreign  to  these  classic  pages!)  did  Mrs.  Batch 
utter  her  pain.  The  Duke  answered  her  tersely 
but  kindly.  He  apologised  for  going  so  abruptly, 
and  said  he  would  be  very  happy  to  wTite  for  her 
future  use  a  testimonial  to  the  excellence  of  her 
rooms  and  of  her  cooking;  and  with  it  he  would 
give  her  a  cheque  not  only  for  the  full  term's 
rent,  and  for  his  board  since  the  beginning  of 
term,  but  also  for  such  board  as  he  would  have 
been  likely  to  have  in  the  term's  remainder.  He 
asked  her  to  present  her  accounts  forthwith. 


ZULEIK.^   DOBSON  271 

He  occupied  the  few  minutes  of  her  absence 
by  writing  the  testimonial.  It  had  shaped  itself 
in  his  mind  as  a  short  ode  in  Doric  Greek.  But, 
for  the  benefit  of  Mrs,  Batch,  he  chose  to  do  a 
rough  equivalent  in  English. 

TO  AN  UNDERGRADUATE  NEEDING 
ROOMS  IN  OXFORD 

{A  Sonnet  in  Oxfordshire  Dialect) 

Zeek  w'ere  thee  will  in  t'Univiirsity, 

Lad,  thee'll  not  vind  nor  bread  nor  bed  that 

matches 
Them   as   thee'll  vind,   roight  ziire,   at  Mrs. 

Batch's  .  .  . 

I  do  not  quote  the  poem  in  extenso,  because, 
frankly,  I  think  it  was  one  of  his  least  happily 
inspired  works.  His  was  not  a  Muse  that  could 
with  a  good  grace  doff  the  grand  manner.  Also, 
his  command  of  the  Oxfordshire  dialect  seems  to 
me  based  less  on  study  than  on  conjecture.  In 
fact,  I  do  not  place  the  poem  higher  than  among 
the  curiosities  of  literature.  It  has  extrinsic  value, 
however,  as  illustrating  the  Duke's  thoughtful- 
ness  for  others  in  the  last  hours  of  his  life.  And 
to  Mrs.  Batch  the  MS.,  framed  and  glazed  in  her 
hall,  is  an  asset  beyond  price  (witness  her  recent 
refusal  of  Mr.  Pierpont  Morgan's  sensational 
bid  for  it). 


272  ZULKIKA    DOBSON 

This  MS.  she  received  together  with  tlie  Duke's 
cheque.  The  presentation  was  made  some  twenty 
minutes  after  she  had  laid  her  accounts  before 
him. 

Lavish  in  giving  large  sums  of  his  own  accord, 
he  was  apt  to  be  circumspect  in  the  matter  of 
small  payments.  Such  is  ever  the  way  of  opulent 
men.  Nor  do  I  see  that  we  have  a  right  to  sneer 
at  them  for  it.  We  cannot  deny  that  their  exist- 
ence is  a  temptation  to  us.  It  is  in  our  fallen  na- 
ture to  want  to  get  something  out  of  them;  and, 
as  we  think,  in  small  sums  (heaven  knows),  it  is 
of  small  sums  that  they  are  careful.  Absurd  to 
suppose  they  really  care  about  halfpence.  It 
must,  therefore,  be  about  us  that  they  care;  and 
we  ought  to  be  grateful  to  them  for  the  pains  they 
are  at  to  keep  us  guiltless.  I  do  not  suggest 
that  Mrs.  Batch  had  at  any  point  overcharged 
the  Duke ;  but  how  was  he  to  know  that  she  had 
not  done  so,  except  by  checking  the  items,  as  was 
his  wont?  The  reductions  that  he  made,  here  and 
there,  did  not  in  all  amount  to  three-and-sixpence. 
I  do  not  say  they  were  just.  But  I  do  say  that  his 
motive  for  making  them,  and  his  satisfaction  at 
having  made  them,  were  rather  beautiful  than 
otherwise. 

Having  struck  an  average  of  Mrs.  Batch's 
weekly  charges,  and  a  similar  average  of  his  own 
reductions,  he  had  a  basis  on  which  to  reckon  his 
board  for  the  rest  of  the  term.     This  amount  he 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  273 

added  to  Mrs.  Batch's  amended  total,  plus  the 
full  term's  rent,  and  accordingly  drew  a  cheque 
on  the  local  bank  where  he  had  an  account.  Mrs. 
Batch  said  she  would  bring  up  a  stamped  receipt 
directly;  but  this  the  Duke  waived,  saying  that 
the  cashed  cheque  itself  would  be  a  sufficient  re- 
ceipt. Accordingly,  he  reduced  by  one  penny  the 
amount  written  on  the  cheque.  Remembering  to 
initial  the  correction,  he  remembered  also,  with 
a  melancholy  smile,  that  to-morrow  the  cheque 
would  not  be  negotiable.  Handing  it,  and  the 
sonnet,  to  Mrs.  Batch,  he  bade  her  cash  it  before 
the  bank  closed.  "And,"  he  said,  "with  a  glance 
at  his  watch,  "you  have  no  time  to  lose.  It  is 
a  quarter  to  four."  Only  two  hours  and  a  quar- 
ter before  the  final  races !  How  quickly  the 
sands  were  running  out ! 

Mrs.  Batch  paused  on  the  threshold,  wanted  to 
know  if  she  could  "help  with  the  packing."  The 
Duke  replied  that  he  was  taking  nothing  with  him : 
his  various  things  would  be  sent  for,  packed,  and 
removed,  within  a  few  days.  No,  he  did  not  want 
her  to  order  a  cab.  He  was  going  to  walk.  And 
"Good-bye,  Mrs.  Batch,"  he  said.  "For  legal 
reasons  with  which  I  won't  burden  you,  you  really 
must  cash  that  cheque  at  once." 

He  sat  down  in  solitude;  and  there  crept  over 
him  a  mood  of  deep  depression  .  .  .  Almost  two 
hours  and  a  quarter  before  the  final  races  !  What 
on  earth   should  he  do   in  the  meantime?     He 


274  ZULI".IKA    DOBSON 

seemed  to  have  done  all  tiiat  there  was  for  lilm 
to  do.  I  lis  executors  would  do  the  rest.  He  had 
no  farewell-letters  to  write.  He  had  no  friends 
with  whom  he  was  on  terms  of  valediction.  There 
was  nothing  at  all  for  him  to  do.  He  stared 
blankly  out  of  the  window,  at  the  greyness  and 
blackness  of  the  sky.  What  a  day!  What  a  cli- 
mate !  Why  did  any  sane  person  live  in  England? 
He  felt  positively  suicidal. 

His  dully  vagrant  eye  lighted  on  the  bottle  of 
Cold  Mixture.  He  ought  to  have  dosed  himself  a 
full  hour  ago.    Well,  he  didn't  care. 

Had  Zuleika  noticed  the  bottle?  he  Idly  won- 
dered. Probably  not.  She  would  have  made 
some  sprightly  reference  to  it  before  she  went. 

Since  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  sit  and  think, 
he  wished  he  could  recapture  that  mood  In  which 
at  luncheon  he  had  been  able  to  see  Zuleika  as 
an  object  for  pity.  Never,  till  to-day,  had  he  seen 
things  otherwise  than  they  were.  Nor  had  he  ever 
needed  to.  Never,  till  last  night,  had  there  been 
in  his  life  anything  he  needed  to  forget.  That 
woman!  As  If  It  really  mattered  what  she 
thought  of  him.  He  despised  himself  for  wishing 
to  forget  she  despised  him.  But  the  wish  was  the 
measure  of  the  need.  He  eyed  the  chiffonier. 
Should  he  again  solicit  the  grape? 

Reluctantly  he  uncorked  the  crusted  bottle,  and 
filled  a  glass.  Was  he  come  to  this?  He  sighed 
and  sipped,  quaffed  and  sighed.     The  spell  of  the 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  275 

old  stored  sunshine  seemed  not  to  work,  this  time. 
He  could  not  cease  from  plucking  at  the  net  of 
ignominies  in  which  his  soul  lay  enmeshed.  Would 
that  he  had  died  yesterday,  escaping  how  much! 
Not  for  an  instant  did  he  flinch  from  the  mere 
fact  of  dying  to-day.  Since  he  was  not  immortal, 
as  he  had  supposed,  it  were  as  well  he  should 
die  now  as  fifty  years  hence.  Better,  indeed.  To 
die  "untimely,"  as  men  called  it,  was  the  timeliest 
of  all  deaths  for  one  who  had  carved  his  youth  to 
greatness.  What  perfection  could  he,  Dorset, 
achieve  beyond  what  was  already  his?  Future 
years  could  but  stale,  if  not  actually  mar,  that 
perfection.  Yes,  it  was  lucky  to  perish  leaving 
much  to  the  imagination  of  posterity.  Dear 
posterity  was  of  a  sentimental,  not  a  realistic, 
habit.  She  always  imagined  the  dead  young  hero 
prancing  gloriously  up  to  the  Psalmist's  limit  a 
young  hero  still;  and  it  was  the  sense  of  her  vast 
loss  that  kept  his  memory  green.  Byron! — he 
would  be  all  forgotten  to-day  if  he  had  lived  to 
be  a  florid  old  gentleman  with  Iron-grey  whiskers, 
writing  very  long,  very  able  letters  to  "The 
Times"  about  the  Repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws.  Yes, 
Byron  would  have  been  that.  It  was  indicated  in 
him.  He  would  have  been  an  old  gentleman 
exacerbated  by  Queen  Victoria's  invincible  preju- 
dice against  him,  her  brusque  refusal  to  "enter- 
tain" Lord  John  Russell's  timid  nomination  of 
him  for  a  post  in  the  Government  .  .  .  Shelley 


276  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

would  have  been  a  poet  to  the  last.  But  how  dull, 
how  very  dull,  would  have  been  the  poetry  of  his 
middle  age! — a  great  unreadable  mass  interposed 
between  him  and  us  .  .  .  Did  Byron,  mused  the 
Duke,  know  what  was  to  be  at  IMissolonghi? 
Did  he  know  that  he  was  to  die  in  service  of  the 
Greeks  \vhom  he  despised?  Byron  might  not  have 
minded  that.  But  what  if  the  Greeks  had  told 
him,  In  so  many  words,  that  they  despised  ///'?«? 
How  would  he  have  felt  then?  Would  he  have 
been  content  with  his  potations  of  barley-water? 
.  ,  .The  Duke  replenished  his  glass,  hoping  the 
spell  might  w^ork  yet..  .  .  Perhaps,  had  Byron  not 
been  a  dandy — but  ah,  had  he  not  been  In  his  soul 
a  dandy  there  would  have  been  no  Byron  worth 
mentioning.  And  it  was  because  he  guarded  not 
his  dandyism  against  this  and  that  Irrelevant  pas- 
sion, sexual  or  political,  that  he  cut  so  annoyingly 
incomplete  a  figure.  He  was  absurd  In  his  poli- 
tics, vulgar  In  his  loves.  Only  in  himself,  at  the 
times  when  he  stood  haughtily  aloof,  was  he  im- 
pressive. Nature,  fashioning  him,  had  fashioned 
also  a  pedestal  for  him  to  stand  and  brood  on,  to 
pose  and  sing  on.  Off  that  pedestal  he  was  lost. 
..."The  Idol  has  come  sliding  down  from  Its 
pedestal" — the  Duke  remembered  these  words 
spoken  yesterday  by  Zuleika.  Yes,  at  the  mo- 
ment when  he  slid  down,  he,  too,  was  lost.  For 
him,  master-dandy,  the  common  arena  was  no 
place.     What  had  he  to  do  with  love?     He  was 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  277 

an  utter  fool  at  It.  Byron  had  at  least  had  some 
fun  out  of  it.  What  fun  had  he  had?  Last  night, 
he  had  forgotten  to  kiss  Zuleika  when  he  held  her 
by  the  wrists.  To-day  it  had  been  as  much  as 
he  could  do  to  let  poor  little  Katie  kiss  his  hand. 
Better  be  vulgar  with  Byron  than  a  noodle  with 
Dorset!  he  bitterly  reflected.  .  .  Still,  noodledom 
was  nearer  than  vulgarity  to  dandyism.  It  was 
a  less  flagrant  lapse.  And  he  had  over  Byron  this 
further  advantage:  his  noodledom  was  not  a  mat- 
ter of  common  knowledge;  whereas  Byron's  vul- 
garity had  ever  needed  to  be  in  the  glare  of  the 
footlights  of  Europe.  The  world  would  say  of 
him  that  he  laid  down  his  life  for  a  woman.  De- 
plorable somersault?  But  nothing  evident  save 
this  in  his  whole  life  was  faulty.  .  .  The  one  other 
thing  that  might  be  carped  at — the  partisan 
speech  he  made  In  the  Lords — had  exquisitely 
justified  itself  by  Its  result.  For  It  was  as  a  Knight 
of  the  Garter  that  he  had  set  the  perfect  seal  on 
his  dandyism.  Yes,  he  reflected,  it  was  on  the 
day  when  first  he  donned  the  most  grandiose  of 
all  costumes,  and  wore  It  grandlier  than  ever  yet 
in  history  had  it  been  worn,  than  ever  would  it 
be  worn  hereafter,  flaunting  the  robes  with  a 
grace  unparalleled  and  inimitable,  and  lending, 
as  it  were,  to  the  very  insignia  a  glory  beyond 
their  own,  that  he  once  and  for  all  fulfilled  him- 
self, doer  of  that  which  he  had  been  sent  Into  the 
world  to  do. 


27S  ZUI.F.IKA    DOBSOX 

Aiul  there  floated  into  his  mind  a  desire,  vague 
at  first,  soon  definite,  infperious,  irresistible,  to 
see  himself  once  more,  before  he  died,  indued  in 
the  fulness  of  his  glory  and  his  might. 

Nothing  hindered.  Fhere  was  yet  a  whole  hour 
before  he  need  start  for  the  river.  His  eyes 
dilated,  somewhat  as  might  those  of  a  child  about 
to  "dress  up"  for  a  charade;  and  already,  in  his 
impatience,  he  had  undone  his  neck-tie. 

One  after  another,  he  unlocked  and  threw  open 
the  black  tin  boxes,  snatching  out  greedily  their 
great  good  splendours  of  crimson  and  white  and 
royal  blue  and  gold.  You  wonder  he  was  not 
appalled  by  the  task  of  essaying  unaided  a  toilet 
so  extensive  and  so  intricate?  You  wondered  even 
when  you  heard  that  he  was  wont  at  Oxford  to 
make  without  help  his  toilet  of  every  day.  Well, 
the  true  dandy  is  always  capable  of  such  high 
Independence.  He  is  craftsman  as  well  as  artist. 
And,  though  any  unaided  Knight  but  he  with 
whom  we  are  here  concerned  would  belike  have 
doddered  hopeless  in  that  labyrinth  of  hooks  and 
buckles  which  underlies  the  visible  glory  of  a 
Knight  "arraied  full  and  proper,"  Dorset 
threaded  his  way  featly  and  without  pause.  He 
had  mastered  his  first  excitement.  In  his  swift- 
ness was  no  haste.  His  procedure  had  the  ease 
and  inevitability  of  a  natural  phenomenon,  and 
was  most  like  to  the  coming  of  a  rainbow. 

Crimson-doubleted,  blue-ribanded,  white-trunk- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  279 

hosed,  he  stooped  to  understrap  his  left  knee  with 
that  strap  of  velvet  round  which  sparkles  the 
proud  gay  motto  of  the  Order.  He  affixed  to  his 
breast  the  octoradiant  star,  so  much  larger  and 
more  lustrous  than  any  actual  star  in  heaven. 
Round  his  neck  he  slung  that  long  daedal  chain 
wherefrom  St.  George,  slaying  the  Dragon,  dan- 
gles. He  bowed  his  shoulders  to  assume  that 
vast  mantle  of  blue  velvet,  so  voluminous,  so  en- 
veloping, that,  despite  the  Cross  of  St.  George 
blazing  on  it,  and  the  shoulder-knots  like  two 
great  white  tropical  flowers  planted  on  it,  we 
seem  to  know  from  It  in  what  manner  of  mantle 
Elijah  prophesied.  Across  his  breast  he  knotted 
this  mantle's  two  cords  of  gleaming  bullion,  one 
tassel  a  due  trifle  higher  than  its  fellow.  All 
these  things  being  done,  he  moved  away  from  the 
mirror,  and  drew  on  a  pair  of  white  kid  gloves. 
Both  of  these  being  buttoned,  he  plucked  up  cer- 
tain folds  of  his  mantle  into  the  hollow  of  his 
left  arm,  and  with  his  right  hand  gave  to  his  left 
hand  that  ostrich-plumed  and  heron-plumed  hat 
of  black  velvet  in  which  a  Knight  of  the  Garter 
is  entitled  to  take  his  walks  abroad.  Then,  with 
head  erect,  and  measured  tread,  he  returned  to 
the  mirror. 

You  are  thinking,  I  know,  of  Mr.  Sargent's 
famous  portrait  of  him.  Forget  it.  Tankerton 
Hall  is  open  to  the  public  on  Wednesdays.  Go 
there,  and  in  the  dining-hall  stand  to  study  well 


28o  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

Sir  Thomas  Lawrence's  portrait  of  the  eleventh 
Duke.  Imagine  a  man  some  twenty  years  younger 
than  he  whom  you  there  behold,  but  having  some 
such  features  and  some  such  bearing,  and  clad  in 
just  such  robes.  Sublimate  the  dignity  of  that 
bearing  and  of  those  features,  and  you  will  then 
have  seen  the  fourteenth  Duke  somewhat  as  he 
stood  reflected  in  the  mirror  of  his  room.  Resist 
your  impulse  to  pass  on  to  the  painting  which 
hangs  next  but  two  to  Lawrence's.  It  deserves,  I 
know,  all  that  you  said  about  it  when  (at  the  very 
time  of  the  events  in  this  chronicle)  it  was  hang- 
ing in  Burlington  House.  Marvellous,  I  grant 
you,  are  those  passes  of  the  swirling  brush  by 
which  the  velvet  of  the  mantle  is  rendered — 
passes  so  light  and  seemingly  so  fortuitous,  yet, 
seen  at  the  right  distance,  so  absolute  in  their 
power  to  create  an  illusion  of  the  actual  velvet. 
Sheen  of  white  satin  and  silk,  glint  of  gold,  glitter 
of  diamonds — never  were  such  things  caught  by 
surer  hand  obedient  to  more  voracious  eye.  Yes, 
all  the  splendid  surface  of  everything  is  there. 
Yet  must  you  not  look.  The  soul  is  not  there. 
An  expensive,  very  new  costume  is  there,  but  no 
evocation  of  the  high  antique  things  it  stands  for; 
whereas  by  the  Duke  it  was  just  these  things  that 
were  evoked  to  make  an  aura  round  him,  a  warm 
symbolic  glow  sharpening  the  outlines  of  his  own 
particular  magnificence.  Reflecting  him,  the  mir- 
ror reflected,  in  due  subordination,  the  history  of 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  aSi 

England.  There  is  nothing  of  that  on  Mr.  Sar- 
gent's canvas.  Obtruded  instead  is  the  astounding 
slickness  of  Mr.  Sargent's  technique:  not  the  sit- 
ter, but  the  painter,  is  master  here.  Nay,  though 
I  hate  to  say  it,  there  is  in  the  portrayal  of  the 
Duke's  attitude  and  expression  a  hint  of  some- 
thing like  mockery — unintentional,  I  am  sure,  but 
to  a  sensitive  eye  discernible.  And — but  it  is 
clumsy  of  me  to  be  reminding  you  of  the  very 
picture  I  would  have  you  forget. 

Long  stood  the  Duke  gazing,  immobile.  One 
thing  alone  ruffled  his  deep  inward  calm.  This 
was  the  thought  that  he  must  presently  put  off 
from  him  all  his  splendour,  and  be  his  normal 
self. 

The  shadow  passed  from  his  brow.  He  would 
go  forth  as  he  was.  He  would  be  true  to  the 
motto  he  wore,  and  true  to  himself.  A  dandy  he 
had  lived.  In  the  full  pomp  and  radiance  of  his 
dandyism  he  would  die. 

His  soul  rose  from  calm  to  triumph.  A  smile 
lit  his  face,  and  he  held  his  head  higher  than  ever. 
He  had  brought  nothing  into  this  world  and  could 
take  nothing  out  of  it?  Well,  what  he  loved  best 
he  could  carry  with  him  to  the  very  end;  and  in 
death  they  would  not  be  divided. 

The  smile  was  still  on  his  face  as  he  passed  out 
from  his  room.  Down  the  stairs  he  passed,  and 
"Oh,"  every  stair  creaked  faintly,  "I  ought  to 
have  been  marble !" 


282  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

And  it  did  indeed  sccni  that  Mrs.  Batch  and 
Katie,  who  had  hurried  out  into  the  hall,  were 
turned  to  some  kind  of  stone  at  sight  of  the 
descending  apparition.  A  moment  ago,  Mrs. 
Batch  had  been  hoping  she  might  yet  at  the  last 
speak  motherly  words.  A  hopeless  mute  now! 
A  moment  ago,  Katie's  eyelids  had  been  red  with 
much  weeping.  Even  from  them  the  colour  sud- 
denly ebbed  now.  Dead-white  her  face  was  be- 
tween the  black  pearl  and  the  pink.  "And  this 
is  the  man  of  whom  I  dared  once  for  an  instant 
hope  that  he  loved  me !" — it  was  thus  that  the 
Duke,  quite  correctly,  interpreted  her  gaze. 

To  her  and  to  her  mother  he  gave  an  inclusive 
bow  as  he  swept  slowly  by.  Stone  was  the  matron, 
and  stone  the  maid. 

Stone,  too,  the  Emperors  over  the  way;  and 
the  more  poignantly  thereby  was  the  Duke  a 
sight  to  anguish  them,  being  the  very  incarnation 
of  what  themselves  had  erst  been,  or  tried  to  be. 
But  in  this  bitterness  they  did  not  forget  their 
sorrow  at  his  doom.  They  were  in  a  mood  to 
forgive  him  the  one  fault  they  had  ever  found  in 
him — his  indifference  to  their  Katie.  And  now — 
o  mirum  m'lrorum — even  this  one  fault  was  wiped 
out. 

For,  stung  by  memory  of  a  gibe  lately  cast  at 
him  by  himself,  the  Duke  had  paused  and,  impul- 
sively looking  back  into  the  hall,  had  beckoned 
Katie  to  him;  and  she  had  come   (she  knew  not 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  283 

how)  to  him;  and  there,  standing  on  the  door- 
step whose  whiteness  was  the  symbol  of  her  love, 
he — very  lightly,  it  is  true,  and  on  the  upmost 
confines  of  the  brow,  but  quite  perceptibly — had 
kissed  her. 


XIX 

And  now  he  had  passed  under  the  little  arch 
between  the  eighth  and  the  ninth  Emperor, 
rounded  the  Sheldonlan,  and  been  lost  to  sight  of 
Katie,  whom,  as  he  was  equally  glad  and  sorry  he 
had  kissed  her,  he  was  able  to  dismiss  from  his 
mind. 

In  the  quadrangle  of  the  Old  Schools  he  glanced 
round  at  the  familiar  labels,  blue  and  gold,  over 
the  iron-studded  doors, — Schola  Theologiae  et 
Antiquae  Philosophia^ ;  Museum  Arundellanum; 
Schola  Musicae.  And  Bibliotheca  Bodleiana — he 
paused  there,  to  feel  for  the  last  time  the  vague 
thrill  he  had  always  felt  at  sight  of  the  small  and 
devious  portal  that  had  lured  to  itself,  and  would 
always  lure,  so  many  scholars  from  the  ends  of 
the  earth,  scholars  famous  and  scholars  obscure, 
scholars  polyglot  and  of  the  most  diverse  bents, 
but  none  of  them  not  stirred  in  heart  somewhat 
on  the  found  threshold  of  the  treasure-house. 
"How  deep,  how  perfect,  the  effect  made  here 
by  refusal  to  make  any  effect  whatsoever!" 
thought  the  Duke.  Perhaps,  after  all.  .  .but  no: 
one  could  lay  down  no  general  rule.  He  flung 
his  mantle  a  little  wider  from  his  breast,  and  pro- 
ceeded into  Radcllffe  Square. 

284 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  285 

Another  farewell  look  he  gave  to  the  old  vast 
horse-chestnut  that  is  called  Bishop  Heber's  tree. 
Certainly,  no:  there  was  no  general  rule.  With 
its  towering  and  bulging  masses  of  verdure  tricked 
out  all  over  in  their  annual  finery  of  catkins, 
Bishop  Heber's  tree  stood  for  the  very  type  of 
ingenuous  ostentation.  And  who  should  dare 
cavil?  who  not  be  gladdened?  Yet  awful,  more 
than  gladdening,  was  the  effect  that  the  tree  made 
to-day.  Strangely  pale  was  the  verdure  against 
the  black  sky;  and  the  multitudinous  catkins  had 
a  look  almost  ghostly.  The  Duke  remembered 
the  legend  that  every  one  of  these  fair  white 
spires  of  blossom  is  the  spirit  of  some  dead  man 
who,  having  loved  Oxford  much  and  well,  is  suf- 
fered thus  to  revisit  her,  for  a  brief  while,  year 
by  year.  And  it  pleased  him  to  doubt  not  that 
on  one  of  the  topmost  branches,  next  Spring,  his 
own  spirit  would  be. 

"Oh,  look!"  cried  a  young  lady  emerging  with 
her  brother  and  her  aunt  through  the  gate  of 
Brasenose. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Jessie,  try  to  behave  your- 
self," hissed  her  brother.  "Aunt  Mabel,  for 
heaven's  sake  don't  stare."  He  compelled  the 
pair  to  walk  on  with  him.  "Jessie,  if  you  look 
round  over  your  shoulder.  .  .  No,  it  is  not  the 
Vice-Chancellor.  It's  Dorset,  of  Judas — the 
Duke  of  Dorset.  .  .  Why  on  earth  shouldn't  he? 
.  .  .No,  it  Isn't  odd  in  the  least.  .  .   No,  I'm  not 


286  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

losing  my  temper.  Only,  don't  call  mc  your  dear 
boy.  .  .  No,  we  will  iiol  walk  slowly  so  as  to  let 
him  pass  us.  .  .  Jessie,  if  you  look,  round.  .  ." 

Poor  fellow!  Howev^er  fond  an  undergraduate 
be  of  his  womenfolk,  at  Oxford  they  keep  him  in 
a  painful  state  of  tension:  at  any  moment  they 
may  somehow  disgrace  him.  And  if  throughout 
the  long  day  he  shall  have  had  the  added  strain 
of  guarding  them  from  the  knowledge  that  he  is 
about  to  commit  suicide,  a  certain  measure  of 
irritability  must  be  condoned. 

Poor  Jessie  and  Aunt  Mabel !  They  were  des- 
tined to  remember  that  Harold  had  been  "very 
peculiar"  all  day.  They  had  arrived  in  the  morn- 
ing, happy  and  eager  despite  the  menace  of  the 
sky,  and — well,  they  were  destined  to  reproach 
themselves  for  having  felt  that  Harold  was 
"really  rather  Impossible."  Oh,  if  he  had  only 
confided  In  them!  They  could  have  reasoned 
with  him,  saved  him — surely  they  could  have  saved 
him!  When  he  told  them  that  the  "First  Divi- 
sion" of  the  races  was  always  very  dull,  and  that 
they  had  much  better  let  him  go  to  it  alone, — 
when  he  told  them  that  It  was  always  very  rowdy, 
and  that  ladles  were  not  supposed  to  be  there — 
oh,  why  had  they  not  guessed  and  clung  to  him, 
and  kept  him  away  from  the  river? 

Well,  here  they  were,  walking  on  Harold's 
either  side,  blind  to  fate,  and  only  longing  to  look 
back   at   the    gorgeous   personage    behind   them. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  287 

Aunt  Mabel  had  inwardly  calculated  that  the  vel- 
vet of  the  mantle  alone  could  not  have  cost  less 
than  four  guineas  a  yard.  One  good  look  back, 
and  she  would  be  able  to  calculate  how  many 
yards  there  were.  .  .  She  followed  the  example  of 
Lot's  wife;  and  Jessie  followed  hers. 

"Very  well,"  said  Harold.  "That  settles  it. 
I  go  alone."  And  he  was  gone  like  an  arrow, 
across  the  High,  down  Oriel  Street. 

The  two  women  stood  staring  ruefully  at  each 
other. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  Duke,  with  a  sweep  of 
his  plumed  hat.  "I  observe  you  are  stranded; 
and,  if  I  read  your  thoughts  aright,  you  are 
impugning  the  courtesy  of  that  young  runagate. 
Neither  of  you,  I  am  very  sure,  is  as  one  of  those 
ladies  who  in  Imperial  Rome  took  a  saucy  pleas- 
ure in  the  spectacle  of  death.  Neither  of  you  can 
have  been  warned  by  your  escort  that  you  were  on 
the  way  to  see  him  die,  of  his  own  accord,  in  com- 
pany with  many  hundreds  of  other  lads,  myself 
included.  Therefore,  regard  his  flight  from  you 
as  an  act  not  of  unkindness,  but  of  tardy  com- 
punction. The  hint  you  have  had  from  him  let 
me  turn  into  a  counsel.  Go  back,  both  of  you, 
to  the  place  whence  you  came." 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  said  Aunt  Mabel,  with 
what  she  took  to  be  great  presence  of  mind. 
"Most  kind  of  you.     We'll  do  just  what  you  tell 


28S  ZULF.IKA    DOBSON 

us.  Conic,  Jessie  dear,"  and  she  liurried  her 
niece  away  with  her. 

Something  in  her  manner  of  fixing  him  with  her 
eye  had  made  the  Duke  suspect  what  was  in  her 
mind.  Well,  she  would  find  out  her  mistake  soon 
enough,  poor  woman.  He  desired,  however,  that 
her  mistake  should  be  made  by  no  one  else.  He 
would  give  no  more  warnings. 

Tragic  it  was  for  him,  in  Merton  Street,  to  see 
among  the  crowd  converging  to  the  meadows  so 
many  women,  young  and  old,  all  Imprescient, 
troubled  by  nothing  but  the  thunder  that  was  in 
the  air,  that  was  on  the  brows  of  their  escorts. 
He  knew  not  whether  it  was  for  their  escorts  or 
for  them  that  he  felt  the  greater  pity;  and  an 
added  load  for  his  heart  was  the  sense  of  his 
partial  responsibility  for  what  impended.  But' 
his  lips  were  sealed  now.  Why  should  he  not 
enjoy  the  effect  he  was  creating? 

It  was  with  a  measured  tread,  as  yesterday 
•with  Zuleika,  that  he  entered  the  avenue  of  elms. 
The  throng  streamed  past  from  behind  him,  part- 
ing wide,  and  marvelling  as  it  streamed.  Under 
the  pall  of  this  evil  evening  his  splendour  was  the 
more  inspiring.  And.  just  as  yesterday  no  man 
had  questioned  his  right  to  be  with  Zuleika,  so 
to-day  there  was  none  to  deem  him  caparisoned 
too  much.  All  the  men  felt  at  a  glance  that  he, 
coming  to  meet  death  thus,  did  no  more  than  the 
right  homage  to  Zuleika — aye,  and  that  he  made 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  289 

them  all  partakers  in  his  own  glory,  casting  his 
great  mantle  over  all  commorients.  Reverence 
forbade  them  to  do  more  than  glance.  But  the 
women  with  them  were  impelled  by  wonder  to 
stare  hard,  uttering  sharp  little  cries  that  mingled 
with  the  cawing  of  the  rooks  overhead.  Thus  did 
scores  of  men  find  themselves  shamed  like  our 
friend  Harold.  But  this,  you  say,  was  no  more 
than  a  just  return  for  their  behaviour  yesterday, 
when,  in  this  very  avenue,  so  many  women  were 
almost  crushed  to  death  by  them  in  their  insensate 
eagerness  to  see  Miss  Dobson. 

To-day  by  scores  of  women  it  was  calculated 
not  only  that  the  velvet  of  the  Duke's  mantle 
could  not  have  cost  less  than  four  guineas  a  yard, 
but  also  that  there  must  be  quite  twenty-five  yards 
of  it.  Some  of  the  fair  mathematicians  had,  in 
the  course  of  the  past  fortnight,  visited  the  Royal 
Academy  and  seen  there  Mr.  Sargent's  portrait 
of  the  wearer,  so  that  their  estimate  now  was 
but  the  endorsement  of  an  estimate  already  made. 
Yet  their  impression  of  the  Duke  was  above  all 
a  spiritual  one.  The  nobility  of  his  face  and 
bearing  was  what  most  thrilled  them  as  they  went 
by;  and  those  of  them  who  had  heard  the  rumour 
that  he  was  in  love  with  that  frightfully  flashy- 
looking  creature,  Zuleika  Dobson,  were  more  than 
ever  sure  there  wasn't  a  word  of  truth  in  it. 

As  he  neared  the  end  of  the  avenue,  the  Duke 
was  conscious  of  a  thinning  in  the  procession  on 


290  ZLLl.lKA    DOBSON 

citlicr  side  of  him,  and  anon  he  was  aware  that 
not  one  undergraduate  was  therein.  And  he 
knew  at  once — did  not  need  to  look  back  to  know 
— why  this  was.     Slw  was  coming. 

Yes,  she  had  coiiie  into  the  avenue,  her  magne- 
tism speeding  before  her,  insomuch  that  all  along 
the  way  the  men  immediately  ahead  of  her  looked 
round,  beheld  her,  stood  aside  for  her.  With  her 
walked  The  MacQuern,  and  a  little  bodyguard  of 
other  blest  acquaintances;  and  behind  her  swayed 
the  dense  mass  of  the  disorganised  procession. 
And  now  the  last  rank  between  her  and  the  Duke 
was  broken,  and  at  the  revealed  vision  of  him  she 
faltered  midway  in  some  raillery  she  was  ad- 
dressing to  The  MacQuern.  Her  eyes  were  fixed, 
her  lips  were  parted,  her  tread  had  become 
stealthy.  With  a  brusque  gesture  of  dismissal  to 
the  men  beside  her,  she  darted  forward,  and 
lightly  overtook  the  Duke  just  as  he  was  turning 
towards  the  barges. 

"May  I?"  she  whispered,  smiling  round  into 
his  face. 

His  shoulder-knots  just  perceptibly  rose. 

"There  isn't  a  policeman  in  sight,  John.  You're 
at  my  mercy.  No,  no;  I'm  at  yours.  Tolerate 
me.  You  really  do  look  quite  wonderful.  There, 
I  won't  be  so  impertinent  as  to  praise  you.  Only 
let  me  be  with  you.     Will  you?" 

The  shoulder-knots  repeated  their  answer. 

"You  needn't  listen  to  me;  needn't  look  at  me 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  291 

— unless  you  care  to  use  my  eyes  as  mirrors.  Only 
let  me  be  seen  with  you.  That's  what  I  want. 
Not  that  your  society  isn't  a  boon  In  Itself,  John. 
Oh,  I've  been  so  bored  since  I  left  you.  The 
MacQuern  is  too,  too  dull,  and  so  are  his  friends. 
Oh,  that  meal  with  them  in  Balllol!  As  soon  as 
I  grew  used  to  the  thought  that  they  were  going 
to  die  for  me,  I  simply  couldn't  stand  them.  Poor 
boys !  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  not  to  tell 
them  I  wished  them  dead  already.  Indeed,  when 
they  brought  me  down  for  the  first  races,  I  did 
suggest  that  they  might  as  well  die  now  as  later. 
Only  they  looked  very  solemn  and  said  it  couldn't 
possibly  be  done  till  after  the  final  races.  And 
oh,  the  tea  with  them !  What  have  you  been 
doing  all  the  afternoon?  Oh  John,  after  them, 
I  could  almost  love  you  again.  Why  can't  one 
fall  In  love  with  a  man's  clothes?  To  think  that 
all  those  splendid  things  you  have  on  are  going  to 
be  spoilt — all  for  me.  Nominally  for  me,  that  is. 
It  is  very  wonderful,  John.  I  do  appreciate  it, 
really  and  truly,  though  I  know  you  think  I  don't. 
John,  if  it  weren't  mere  spite  you  feel  for  me — 
but  it's  no  good  talking  about  that.  Come,  let  us 
be  as  cheerful  as  we  may  be.  Is  this  the  Judas 
house-boat?" 

"The  Judas  barge,"  said  the  Duke,  irritated 
by  a  mistake  which  but  yesterday  had  rather 
charmed  him. 

As  he  followed  his  companion  across  the  plank, 


292  7aij:ik.\  dobson 

there  came  dully  from  the  hills  the  first  low  growl 
of  the  pent  storm.  The  sound  struck  for  him  a 
strange  contrast  with  the  prattle  he  had  perforce 
been  listening  to. 

"Thunder,"  said  Zuleika  over  her  shoulder. 

"Evidently,"  he  answered. 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  to  the  roof,  she  looked 
round.     "Aren't  you  coming?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  pointed  to  the  raft  in 
front  of  the  barge.     She  quickly  descended. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "my  gesture  was  not  a 
summons.    The  raft  is  for  men." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  on  it?" 

"To  wait  there  till  the  races  are  over." 

"But — what  do  you  mean?  Aren't  you  coming 
up  on  to  the  roof  at  all?    Yesterday " 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  Duke,  unable  to  repress 
a  smile.  "But  to-day  I  am  not  dressed  for  a 
flying-leap." 

Zuleika  put  a  finger  to  her  lips.  "Don't  talk 
so  loud.  Those  women  up  there  will  hear  you. 
No  one  must  ever  know  I  knew  what  was  going 
to  happen.  What  evidence  should  I  have  that  I 
tried  to  prevent  it?  Only  my  own  unsupported 
word — and  the  world  is  always  against  a  woman. 
So  do  be  careful.  Tve  thought  it  all  out.  The 
whole  thing  must  be  sprung  on  me.  Don't  look 
so  horribly  cynical.  .  .  What  was  I  saying?  Oh 
yes;  well,  it  doesn't  really  matter.  I  had  it  fixed 
in  my  mind  that  you — but  no,  of  course,  in  that 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  293 

mantle  you  couldn't.  But  why  not  come  up  on  the 
roof  with  me   meanwhile,   and  then   afterwards 

make  some  excuse  and "     The   rest  of  her 

whisper  was  lost  In  another  growl  of  thunder. 

"I  would  rather  make  my  excuses  forthwith," 
said  the  Duke.  "And,  as  the  races  must  be  almost 
due  now,  I  advise  you  to  go  straight  up  and  secure 
a  place  against  the  railing." 

"It  will  look  very  odd,  my  going  all  alone  Into 
a  crowd  of  people  whom  I  don't  know.  I'm  an 
unmarried  girl.     I  do  think  you  might " 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  Duke. 

Again  Zulelka  raised  a  warning  finger. 

"Good-bye,  John,"  she  whispered.  "See,  I  am 
still  wearing  your  studs.  Good-bye.  Don't  forget 
to  call  my  name  In  a  loud  voice.    You  promised." 

"Yes." 

"And,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "remember 
this.  I  have  loved  but  twice  In  my  life;  and  none 
but  you  have  I  loved.  This,  too :  If  you  hadn't 
forced  me  to  kill  my  love,  I  would  have  died  with 
you.    And  you  know  It  Is  true." 

"Yes."     It  was  true  enough. 

Courteously  he  watched  her  up  the  stairs. 

As  she  reached  the  roof,  she  cried  down  to  him 
from  the  throng,  "Then  you  will  wait  down  there 
to  take  me  home  afterwards?" 

He  bowed  silently. 

The  raft  was  even  more  crowded  than  yester- 
day, but  way  was  made  for  him  by  Judaslans  past 


294  ZULKIKA    DOBSON 

and  present.  lie  tt)uk  his  place  in  the  centre  of 
the  Iront  row. 

At  his  feet  flowed  the  fateful  river.  From  the 
various  barges  the  last  punt-loads  had  been  fer- 
ried across  to  the  towing-path,  and  the  last  of  the 
men  who  were  to  follow  the  boats  in  their  course 
had  vanished  towards  the  starting-point.  There 
remained,  however,  a  fringe  of  lesser  enthusiasts. 
Their  figures  stood  outlined  sharply  in  that 
strange  dark  clearness  which  immediately  precedes 
a  storm. 

I  he  thunder  rumbled  around  the  hills,  and  now 
and  again  there  was  a  faint  glare  on  the  horizon. 

Would  Judas  bump  Magdalen?  Opinion  on 
the  raft  seemed  to  be  divided.  But  the  sanguine 
spirits  were  In  a  majority. 

"If  I  were  making  a  book  on  the  event,"  said 
a  middle-aged  clergyman,  with  that  air  of  breezy 
emancipation  which  is  so  distressing  to  the  laity, 
"I'd  bet  two  to  one  we  bump." 

"You  demean  your  cloth,  sir,"  the  Duke  would 
have  said,  "without  cheating  its  disabilities,"  had 
not  his  mouth  been  stopped  by  a  loud  and  pro- 
longed thunder-clap. 

In  the  hush  thereafter,  came  the  puny  sound  of 
a  gunshot.  7he  boats  were  starting.  Would 
Judas  bump  Magdalen?  Would  Judas  be  head 
of  the  river? 

Strange,  thought  the  Duke,  that  for  him,  stand- 
ing as  he  did  on  the  peak  of  dandyism,  on  the 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  295 

brink  of  eternity,  this  trivial  question  of  boats 
could  have  importance.  And  yet,  and  yet,  for 
this  it  was  that  his  heart  was  beating.  A  few 
minutes  hence,  an  end  to  victors  and  vanquished 
alike;  and  yet.  .  . 

A  sudden  white  vertical  streak  slid  down  the 
sky.  Then  there  was  a  consonance  to  split  the 
drums  of  the  world's  ears,  followed  by  a  horrific 
rattling  as  of  actual  artillery — tens  of  thousands 
of  gun-carriages  simultaneously  at  the  gallop,  col- 
liding, crashing,  heeling  over  in  the  blackness. 

Then,  and  yet  more  awful,  silence;  the  little 
earth  cowering  voiceless  under  the  heavens'  men- 
ace. And,  audible  in  the  hush  now,  a  faint  sound; 
the  sound  of  the  runners  on  the  towing-path  cheer- 
ing the  crews  forward,  forward. 

And  there  was  another  faint  sound  that  came 
to  the  Duke's  ears.  It  he  understood  when,  a 
moment  later,  he  saw  the  surface  of  the  river 
alive  with  infinitesimal  fountains. 

Rain! 

His  very  mantle  was  aspersed.  In  another 
minute  he  would  stand  sodden,  inglorious,  a  mock. 
He  didn't  hesitate. 

"Zuleika!"  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice.  Then  he 
took  a  deep  breath,  and,  burying  his  face  in  his 
mantle,  plunged. 

Full  on  the  river  lay  the  mantle  outspread. 
Then  it,  too,  went  under.  A  great  roll  of  water 
marked  the  spot.     The  plumed  hat  floated. 


296  ZULF.IKA    DOBSON 

1  lie  re  was  a  confusion  of  shouts  from  the  raft, 
of  screams  from  the  roof.  Many  youths — all  the 
youths  there — cried  "Zuleika!"  and  leapt  emu- 
lously  headlong  into  the  water.  ''Brave  fellows!" 
shouted  the  elder  men,  supposing  rescue-work. 
The  rain  pelted,  the  thunder  pealed.  Here  and 
there  was  a  glimpse  of  a  young  head  above  water 
— for  an  instant  only. 

Shouts  and  screams  now  from  the  infected 
barges  on  either  side.  A  score  of  fresh  plunges. 
"Splendid  fellows!" 

JNIcanwhile,  what  of  the  Duke?  I  am  glad  to 
say  that  he  was  alive  and  (but  for  the  cold  he 
had  caught  last  night)  well.  Indeed,  his  mind 
had  never  worked  more  clearly  than  in  this  swift 
dim  underworld.  His  mantle,  the  cords  of  it 
having  come  untied,  had  drifted  off  him,  leaving 
his  arms  free.  With  breath  well-pent,  he  steadily 
swam,  scarcely  less  amused  than  annoyed  that  the 
gods  had,  after  all,  dictated  the  exact  time  at 
which  he  should  seek  death. 

I  am  loth  to  interrupt  my  narrative  at  this 
rather  exciting  moment — a  moment  when  the 
quick,  tense  style,  exemplified  in  the  last  para- 
graph but  one,  is  so  very  desirable.  But  in  justice 
to  the  gods  I  must  pause  to  put  in  a  word  of  ex- 
cuse for  them.  They  had  imagined  that  it  was  in 
mere  Irony  that  the  Duke  had  said  he  could  not 
die  till  after  the  bumping-races;  and  not  until  it 
seemed  that  he  stood  ready  to  make  an  end  of 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  297 

himself  had  the  signal  been  given  by  Zeus  for  the 
rain  to  fall.  One  is  taught  to  refrain  from  irony, 
because  mankind  does  tend  to  talce  it  literally. 
In  the  hearing  of  the  gods,  who  hear  all,  it  is 
conversely  unsafe  to  make  a  simple  and  direct 
statement.  So  what  is  one  to  do?  The  dilemma 
needs  a  whole  volume  to  itself. 

But  to  return  to  the  Duke.  He  had  now  been 
under  water  for  a  full  minute,  swimming  down 
stream;  and  he  calculated  that  he  had  yet  another 
full  minute  of  consciousness.  Already  the  whole 
of  his  past  life  had  vividly  presented  itself  to  him 
— myriads  of  tiny  incidents,  long  forgotten,  now 
standing  out  sharply  in  their  due  sequence.  He 
had  mastered  this  conspectus  in  a  flash  of  time, 
and  was  already  tired  of  it.  How  smooth  and 
yielding  were  the  weeds  against  his  face !  He 
wondered  if  Mrs.  Batch  had  been  in  time  to  cash 
the  cheque.  If  not,  of  course  his  executors  would 
pay  the  amount,  but  there  would  be  delays,  long 
delays,  Mrs.  Batch  in  meshes  of  red  tape.  Red 
tape  for  her,  green  weeds  for  him — he  smiled  at 
this  poor  conceit,  classifying  it  as  a  fair  sample  of 
merman's  wit.  He  swam  on  through  the  quiet 
cool  darkness,  less  quickly  now.  Not  many  more 
strokes  now,  he  told  himself;  a  few,  only  a  few; 
then  sleep.  How  was  he  come  here?  Some 
woman  had  sent  him.  Ever  so  many  years  ago, 
some  woman.  He  forgave  her.  There  was  noth- 
ing to   forgive  her.     It  was  the  gods  who  had 


298  ZLLI'.IKA    DOBSON 

sent  him — too  soon,  too  soon.  He  let  his  arms 
rise  in  the  water,  and  he  floated  up.  There  was 
air  in  that  oxer-worKl,  and  somethiii}^  he  needed 
to  know  there  before  he  came  down  again  to 
sleep. 

He  gasped  the  air  into  his  lungs,  and  he  remem- 
bered what  it  was  that  he  needed  to  know. 

Had  he  risen  in  mid-stream,  the  keel  of  the 
Magdalen  boat  might  have  killed  him.  The  oars 
of  Magdalen  did  all  but  graze  his  face.  The  eyes 
of  the  Magdalen  cox  met  his.  The  cords  of  the 
Magdalen  rudder  slipped  from  the  hands  that 
held  them;  whereupon  the  Magdalen  man  who 
rowed  "bow"  missed  his  stroke. 

An  instant  later,  just  where  the  line  of  barges 
begins,  Judas  had  bumped  Magdalen. 

A  crash  of  thunder  deadened  the  din  of  the 
stamping  and  dancing  crowd  on  the  towing-path. 
The  rain  was  a  deluge  making  land  and  water 
as  one. 

And  the  conquered  crew,  and  the  conquering, 
both  now  had  seen  the  face  of  the  Duke.  A  white 
smiling  face,  anon  it  was  gone.  Dorset  was  gone 
down  to  his  last  sleep. 

Victory  and  defeat  alike  forgotten,  the  crews 
staggered  erect  and  flung  themselves  into  the 
river,  the  slender  boats  capsizing  and  spinning 
futile  around  in  a  melley  of  oars. 

From  the  towing-path — no  more  din  there  now, 
but  great  single  cries  of  "Zuleika!" — leapt  figures 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  299 

innumerable  through  rain  to  river.  The  arrested 
boats  of  the  other  crews  drifted  zigzag  hither  and 
thither.  The  dropped  oars  rocked  and  clashed, 
sank  and  rebounded,  as  the  men  plunged  across 
them  into  the  swirling  stream. 

And  over  all  this  confusion  and  concussion  of 
men  and  man-made  things  crashed  the  vaster  dis- 
cords of  the  heavens;  and  the  waters  of  the 
heavens  fell  ever  denser  and  denser,  as  though 
to  the  aid  of  waters  that  could  not  in  themselves 
envelop  so  many  hundreds  of  struggling  human 
forms. 

All  along  the  soaked  towing-path  lay  strewn 
the  horns,  the  rattles,  the  motor-hooters,  that  the 
youths  had  flung  aside  before  they  leapt.  Here 
and  there  among  these  relics  stood  dazed  elder 
men,  staring  through  the  storm.  There  was  one 
of  them — a  grey-beard — who  stripped  off  his 
blazer,  plunged,  grabbed  at  some  live  man,  grap- 
pled him,  was  dragged  under.  He  came  up  again 
further  along  stream,  swam  choking  to  the  bank, 
clung  to  the  grasses.  He  whimpered  as  he  sought 
foot-hold  in  the  slime.  It  was  ill  to  be  down  in 
that  abominable  sink  of  death. 

Abominable,  yes,  to  them  who  discerned  there 
death  only;  but  sacramental  and  sweet  enough 
to  the  men  who  were  dying  there  for  love.  Any 
face  that  rose  was  smiling. 

The  thunder  receded;  the  ram  was  less  vehe- 
ment; the  boats  and  the  oars  had  drifted  against 


300  ZULF.IKA    DOBSON 

the  banks.  And  always  the  patient  river  bore  its 
awtul  burden  towards  Ifflcy. 

As  on  the  towing-path,  so  on  the  youth-bereft 
rafts  of  the  barges,  yonder,  stood  many  stupefied 
elders,  staring  at  the  river,  staring  back,  from  the 
river  into  one  another's  faces. 

Dispeopled  now  were  the  roofs  of  the  barges. 
Under  the  first  drops  of  the  rain  most  of  the 
women  had  come  huddling  down  for  shelter  in- 
side; panic  had  presently  driven  down  the  rest. 
Yet  on  one  roof  one  woman  still  was.  A  strange, 
drenched  figure,  she  stood  bright-eyed  in  the  dim- 
ness; alone,  as  it  was  well  she  should  be  in  her 
great  hour;  draining  the  lees  of  such  homage  as 
had  come  to  no  woman  in  history  recorded. 


XX 


Artistically,  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for 
that  old  Greek  friend  of  ours,  the  Messenger; 
and  I  dare  say  you  blame  me  for  having,  as  it 
were,  made  you  an  eye-witness  of  the  death  of  the 
undergraduates,  when  I  might  so  easily  have 
brought  some  one  in  to  tell  you  about  it  after  it 
was  all  over...  Some  one?  Whom?  Are  you 
not  begging  the  question?  I  admit  there  were, 
that  evening  in  Oxford,  many  people  who,  when 
they  went  home  from  the  river,  gave  vivid  reports 
of  what  they  had  seen.  But  among  them  was  none 
who  had  seen  more  than  a  small  portion  of  the 
whole  affair.  Certainly,  I  might  have  pieced  to- 
gether a  dozen  of  the  various  accounts,  and  put 
them  all  into  the  mouth  of  one  person.  But  cred- 
ibility is  not  enough  for  Clio's  servant.  I  aim  at 
truth.  And  so,  as  I  by  my  Zeus-given  incorporeity 
was  the  one  person  who  had  a  good  view  of  the 
scene  at  large,  you  must  pardon  me  for  having 
withheld  the  veil  of  indirect  narration. 

"Too  late,"  you  will  say  if  I  offer  you  a  Mes- 
senger now.    But  it  was  not  thus  that  Mrs.  Batch 
and    Katie    greeted    Clarence    when,    lamentably 
soaked  with   rain,   that   Messenger  appeared  on 
301 


302  ZULKIKA    DOBSON 

tlic  threshold  of  the  kitchen.  Katie  was  laying 
the  table-cloth  for  seven  o'clock  supper.  Neither 
slic  nor  her  mother  was  clairvoyante.  Neither 
of  them  knew  what  had  been  happening.  But, 
as  Clarence  had  not  come  home  since  afternoon- 
school,  they  had  assumed  that  he  was  at  the  river; 
and  they  now  assumed  from  the  look  of  him  that 
something  very  unusual  had  been  happening  there. 
As  to  what  this  was,  they  were  not  quickly  en- 
lightened. Our  old  Greek  friend,  after  a  run  of 
twenty  miles,  would  always  reel  off  a  round  hun- 
dred of  graphic  verses  unimpeachable  in  scansion. 
Clarence  was  of  degenerate  mould.  He  collapsed 
on  to  a  chair,  and  sat  there  gasping;  and  his  re- 
covery was  rather  delayed  than  hastened  by  his 
mother,  who,  in  her  solicitude,  patted  him  vigor- 
ously between  the  shoulders. 

"Let  him  alone,  mother,  do,"  cried  Katie, 
wringing  her  hands. 

"The  Duke,  he's  drowned  himself,"  presently 
gasped  the  Messenger. 

Blank  verse,  yes,  so  far  as  it  went;  but  delivered 
without  the  slightest  regard  for  rhythm,  and  com- 
posed in  stark  defiance  of  those  laws  which  should 
regulate  the  breaking  of  bad  news.  You,  please 
remember,  were  carefully  prepared  by  me  against 
the  shock  of  the  Duke's  death;  and  yet  I  hear 
you  still  mumbling  that  I  didn't  let  the  actual  fact 
be  told  you  by  a  Messenger.  Come,  do  you  really 
think  your  grievance  against  me  is  for  a  moment 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  303 

comparable  with  that  of  Mrs.  and  Miss  Batch 
against  Clarence?  Did  you  feel  faint  at  any 
moment  in  the  foregoing  chapter?  No.  But 
Katie,  at  Clarence's  first  words,  fainted  outright. 
Think  a  little  more  about  this  poor  girl  senseless 
on  the  floor,  and  a  little  less  about  your  own 
paltry  discomfort. 

Mrs.  Batch  herself  did  not  faint,  but  she  was 
too  much  overwhelmed  to  notice  that  her  daugh- 
ter had  done  so. 

"No!     Mercy  on  us!     Speak,  boy,  can't  you?" 

"The  river,"  gasped  Clarence.  "Threw  him- 
self in.  On  purpose.  I  was  on  the  towing-path. 
Saw  him  do  it." 

Mrs.  Batch  gave  a  low  moan. 

"Katie's  fainted,"  added  the  Messenger,  not 
without  a  touch  of  personal  pride. 

"Saw  him  do  it,"  Mrs.  Batch  repeated  dully. 
"Katie,"  she  said.  In  the  same  voice,  "get  up  this 
instant."     But  Katie  did  not  hear  her. 

The  mother  was  loth  to  have  been  outdone  in 
sensibility  by  the  daughter,  and  it  was  with  some 
temper  that  she  hastened  to  make  the  necessary 
ministrations. 

"Where  am  I?"  asked  Katie,  at  length,  echoing 
the  words  used  in  this  very  house,  at  a  similar 
juncture,  on  this  very  day,  by  another  lover  of 
the  Duke. 

"Ah,  you  may  well  ask  that,"  said  Mrs.  Batch, 
with  more  force  than  reason.     "A  mother's  sup- 


304  ZUIJ'IKA    DOBSON 

port  Indeed!  Well  I  And  as  for  you,"  she  cried, 
turning  on  Clarence,  "sending  her  off  like  that 
with  your — "  She  was  face  to  face  again  with 
the  tragic  news.  Katie,  remembering  it  simultane- 
ously, uttered  a  loud  sob.  Mrs.  Batch  capped  this 
with  a  much  louder  one.  Clarence  stood  before 
the  fire,  slowly  revolving  on  one  heel.  His  clothes 
steamed  briskly. 

"It  isn't  true,"  said  Katie.  She  rose  and  came 
uncertainly  towards  her  brother,  half  threatening, 
half  imploring. 

"All  right,"  said  he,  strong  in  his  advantage. 
"Then  I  shan't  tell  either  of  you  anything  more." 

Mrs.  Batch  through  her  tears  called  Katie  a 
bad  girl,  and  Clarence  a  bad  boy. 

"Where  did  you  get  themT''  asked  Clarence, 
pointing  to  the  ear-rings  worn  by  his  sister. 

"i/^  gave  me  them,"  said  Katie.  Clarence 
curbed  the  brotherly  intention  of  telling  her  she 
looked  "a  sight"  in  them. 

She  stood  staring  into  vacancy.  "He  didn't 
love  /z^r,"  she  murmured.  "That  was  all  over. 
I'll  vow  he  didn't  love  /z^r." 

"Who  d'you  mean  by  her?"  asked  Clarence. 

"That  Miss  Dobson  that's  been  here." 

"What's  her  other  name?" 

"Zuleika,"  Katie  enunciated  with  bitterest  ab- 
horrence. 

"Well,  then,  he  jolly  well  did  love  her.  That's 
the  name  he  called  out  just  before  he  threw  him- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  305 

self  In.  'Zuleika!' — like  that,"  added  the  boy, 
with  a  most  infelicitous  attempt  to  reproduce  the 
Duke's  manner. 

Katie  had  shut  her  eyes,  and  clenched  her 
hands. 

"He  hated  her.    He  told  me  so,"  she  said. 

"I  was  always  a  mother  to  him,"  sobbed  Mrs. 
Batch,  rocking  to  and  fro  on  a  chair  in  a  corner. 
"Why  didn't  he  come  to  me  in  his  trouble?" 

"He  kissed  me,"  said  Katie,  as  in  a  trance. 
"No  other  man  shall  ever  do  that." 

"He  did?"  exclaimed  Clarence.  "And  you  let 
him?" 

"You  wretched  little  whipper-snapper  1"  flashed 
Katie. 

"Oh,  I  am,  am  I?"  shouted  Clarence,  squaring 
up  to  his  sister.     "Say  that  again,  will  you?" 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Katie  would  have  said 
it  again,  had  not  her  mother  closed  the  scene 
with  a  prolonged  wail  of  censure. 

"You  ought  to  be  thinking  of  me,  you  wicked 
girl,"  said  Mrs.  Batch.  Katie  went  across,  and 
laid  a  gentle  hand  on  her  mother's  shoulder.  This, 
however,  did  but  evoke  a  fresh  flood  of  tears. 
Mrs.  Batch  had  a  keen  sense  of  the  deportment 
owed  to  tragedy.  Katie,  by  bickering  with  Clar- 
ence, had  thrown  away  the  advantage  she  had 
gained  by  fainting.  Mrs.  Batch  was  not  going 
to  let  her  retrieve  it  by  shining  as  a  consoler.  I 
hasten  to  add  that  this  resolve  was  only  sub-con- 


3o6  ZULI'.IKA    DOBSON 

scious  in  the  good  woman.  Her  grief  was  per- 
fectly sincere.  And  it  was  not  the  less  so  because 
w  ith  it  was  mingled  a  certain  joy  in  the  greatness 
of  the  calamity.  She  came  of  good  sound  peasant 
stock.  Abiding  in  her  was  the  spirit  of  those  old 
songs  and  ballads  in  which  daisies  and  daffodillies 
and  lovers'  vows  and  smiles  are  so  strangely  in- 
woven with  tombs  and  ghosts,  with  murders  and 
all  manner  of  grim  things.  She  had  not  had  edu- 
cation enough  to  spoil  her  nerve.  She  was  able 
to  take  the  rough  with  the  smooth.  She  was  able 
to  take  all  life  for  her  province,  and  death 
too. 

The  Duke  was  dead.  This  was  the  stupendous 
outline  she  had  grasped:  now  let  it  be  filled  in. 
She  had  been  stricken :  now  let  her  be  racked. 
Soon  after  her  daughter  had  moved  away,  Mrs. 
Batch  dried  her  eyes,  and  bade  Clarence  tell  just 
what  had  happened.  She  did  not  flinch.  Pvlodern 
Katie  did. 

Such  had  ever  been  the  Duke's  magic  in  the 
household  that  Clarence  had  at  first  forgotten  to 
mention  that  any  one  else  was  dead.  Of  this 
omission  he  was  glad.  It  promised  him  a  new 
lease  of  importance.  Meanwhile,  he  described  in 
greater  detail  the  Duke's  plunge.  Mrs.  Batch's 
mind,  while  she  listened,  ran  ahead,  dog-like,  into 
the  immediate  future,  ranging  around:  "the  fam- 
ily" would  all  be  here  to-morrow,  the  Duke's  own 
room   must   be   "put   straight"   to-night,    "I   was 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  307 

always  a  mother  to  him,  my  Lady,  in  a  manner 
of  speaking"  .  .  . 

Katie's  mind  harked  back  to  the  immediate  past 
— to  the  tone  of  that  voice,  to  that  hand  which 
she  had  kissed,  to  the  touch  of  those  lips  on  her 
brow,  to  the  door-step  she  had  made  so  white  for 
him,  day  by  day.  .  . 

The  sound  of  the  rain  had  long  ceased.  There 
was  the  noise  of  a  gathering  wind. 

"Then  In  went  a  lot  of  others,"  Clarence  was 
saying.  "And  they  all  shouted  out  'Zuleika!'  just 
like  he  did.  Then  a  lot  more  went  In.  First  I 
thought  it  was  some  sort  of  fun.  Not  It!"  And 
he  told  how,  by  Inquiries  further  down  the  river, 
he  had  learned  the  extent  of  the  disaster.  "Hun- 
dreds and  hundreds  of  them — all  of  them,"  he 
summed  up.  "And  all  for  the  love  of  her,"  he 
added,  as  with  a  sulky  salute  to  Romance. 

Mrs.  Batch  had  risen  from  her  chair,  the  better 
to  cope  with  such  magnitude.  She  stood  with 
wide-spread  arms,  silent,  gaping.  She  seemed,  by 
sheer  force  of  sympathy,  to  be  expanding  to  the 
dimensions  of  a  crowd. 

Intensive  Katie  recked  little  of  all  these  other 
deaths.  "I  only  know,"  she  said,  "that  he  hated 
her." 

"Hundreds  and  hundreds — all,"  Intoned  Mrs. 
Batch,  then  gave  a  sudden  start,  as  having  remem- 
bered something.  Mr.  Noaks !  He,  tool  She 
staggered  to  the  door,  leaving  her  actual  offspring 


3o8  ZUI.I'IKA    DOBSON 

to  their  own  devices,  and  went  heavily  up  the 
stairs,  her  mind  scampering  again  bet  ore  her..  .  . 
If  he  was  safe  and  sound,  dear  young  gentleman, 
heaven  be  praised!  and  she  would  break  the  awful 
news  to  him,  very  gradually.  If  not,  there  was 
another  "family"  to  be  solaced;  "I'm  a  mother 
myself,  Mrs.  Noaks".  .  . 

The  sitting-room  door  was  closed.  Twice  did 
Mrs.  Batch  tap  on  the  panel,  receiving  no  answer. 
She  went  in,  gazed  around  in  the  dimness,  sighed 
deeply,  and  struck  a  match.  Conspicuous  on  the 
table  lay  a  piece  of  paper.  She  bent  to  examine 
it.  A  piece  of  lined  paper,  torn  from  an  exercise 
book,  it  was  neatly  inscribed  with  the  words  What 
is  Life  ivithotit  Love?  The  final  word  and  the 
note  of  interrogation  were  somewhat  blurred,  as 
by  a  tear.  The  match  had  burnt  itself  out.  The 
landlady  lit  another,  and  read  the  legend  a  second 
time,  that  she  might  take  in  the  full  pathos  of  it. 
Then  she  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair.  For  some 
minutes  she  wept  there.  Then,  having  no  more 
tears,  she  went  out  on  tip-toe,  closing  the  door 
very  quietly. 

As  she  descended  the  last  flight  of  stairs,  her 
daughter  had  just  shut  the  front-door,  and  was 
coming  along  the  hall. 

"Poor  Mr.  Noaks — he's  gone,"  said  the 
mother. 

"Has  he?"  said  Katie  listlessly. 

"Yes  he  has,  you  heartless  girl.     What's  that 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  309 

you've  got  in  your  hand?  Why,  if  it  isn't  the 
black-leading !  And  what  have  you  been  doing 
with  that?" 

"Let  me  alone,  mother,  do,"  said  poor  Katie. 
She  had  done  her  lowly  task.  She  had  expressed 
her  mourning,  as  best  she  could,  there  where  she 
had  been  wont  to  express  her  love. 


XXI 

And  Zulcika?     She  Iiad  done  a  wise  thing,  and 
was  where  it  was  best  that  she  should  be. 

Her  face  lay  upturned  on  the  water's  surface, 
and  round  it  were  the  masses  of  her  dark  hair, 
half   floating,    half   submerged.      Her  eyes   were 
closed,  and  her  lips  were  parted.     Not  Ophelia  in 
the  brook  could  have  seemed  more  at  peace. 
"Like  a  creature  native  and  indued 
Unto  that  element," 
tranquil  Zulcika  lay. 

Gently  to  and  fro  her  tresses  drifted  on  the 
water,  or  under  the  water  went  ever  ravelling  and 
unravelling.     Nothing  else  of  her  stirred. 

What  to  her  now  the  loves  that  she  had  inspired 
and  played  on?  the  lives  lost  for  her?  Little 
thought  had  she  now  of  them.    Aloof  she  lay. 

Steadily  rising  from  the  water  was  a  thick  va- 
pour that  turned  to  dew  on  the  window-pane.  The 
air  was  heavy  with  scent  of  violets.  These  are 
the  flowers  of  mourning;  but  their  scent  here  and 
now  signified  nothing;  for  Eau  de  Violettes  was 
the  bath-essence  that  Zulcika  always  had. 

The  bath-room  was  not  of  the  white-gleaming 
kind  to  which  she  was  accustomed.  The  walls 
were  papered,  not  tiled,  and  the  bath  itself  was  of 

310 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  311 

japanned  tin,  framed  in  mahogany.  These  things, 
on  the  evening  of  her  arrival  at  the  Warden's, 
had  rather  distressed  her.  But  she  was  the  better 
able  to  bear  them  because  of  that  well-remembered 
past  when  a  bath-room  was  in  itself  a  luxury  pined 
for — days  when  a  not-large  and  not-full  can  of 
not-hot  water,  slammed  down  at  her  bedroom 
door  by  a  governess-resenting  housemaid,  was  as 
much  as  the  gods  allowed  her.  And  there  was, 
to  dulcify  for  her  the  bath  of  this  evening,  the  yet 
sharper  contrast  with  the  plight  she  had  just  come 
home  in,  sopped,  shivering,  clung  to  by  her 
clothes.  Because  this  bath  was  not  a  mere  lux- 
ury, but  a  necessary  precaution,  a  sure  means  of 
salvation  from  chill,  she  did  the  more  gratefully 
bask  in  It,  till  Melisande  came  back  to  her,  laden 
with  warmed  towels. 

A  few  minutes  before  eight  o'clock  she  was 
fully  ready  to  go  down  to  dinner,  with  even  more 
than  the  usual  glow  of  health,  and  hungry  beyond 
her  wont. 

Yet,  as  she  went  down,  her  heart  somewhat 
misgave  her.  Indeed,  by  force  of  the  wide  ex- 
perience she  had  had  as  a  governess,  she  never 
did  feel  quite  at  her  ease  when  she  was  staying 
in  a  private  house:  the  fear  of  not  giving  satisfac- 
tion haunted  her;  she  was  always  on  her  guard; 
the  shadow  of  dismissal  absurdly  hovered.  And 
to-night  she  could  not  tell  herself,  as  she  usually 
did,  not  to  be  so  silly.     If  her  grandfather  knew 


312  ZULEIKA   DOBSON 

already  the  motive  by  which  those  young  men 
had  been  actuated,  dinner  with  him  might  be  a 
rather  strained  affair.  He  might  tell  her,  in  so 
many  words,  that  he  wished  he  had  not  invited 
her  to  Oxford. 

Through  the  open  door  of  the  drawing  room 
she  saw  him,  standing  majestic,  draped  in  a  volum- 
inous black  gown.  Her  Instinct  was  to  run  away; 
but  this  she  conquered.  She  went  straight  in,  re- 
membering not  to  smile. 

"Ah,  ah,"  said  the  Warden,  shaking  a  fore- 
finger at  her  with  old-world  playfulness.  "And 
what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?" 

Relieved,  she  was  also  a  trifle  shocked.  Was 
It  possible  that  he,  a  responsible  old  man,  could 
take  things  so  lightly? 

"Oh,  grand-papa,"  she  answered,  hanging  her 
head,  "what  can  I  say?  It  is — It  Is  too,  too 
dreadful." 

"There,  there,  my  dear.  I  was  but  jesting.  If 
you  have  had  an  agreeable  time,  you  are  forgiven 
for  playing  truant.  Where  have  you  been  all 
day?" 

She  saw  that  she  had  misjudged  him.  "I  have 
just  come  from  the  river,"  she  said  gravely. 

"Yes?  And  did  the  College  make  its  fourth 
bump  to-night?" 

"I — I  don't  know,  grand-papa.  There  was  so 
much  happening.  It — I  will  tell  you  all  about  it 
at  dinner." 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  313 

"Ah,  but  to-night,"  he  said,  indicating  his  gown, 
"I  cannot  be  with  you.  The  bump-supper,  you 
know.     I  have  to  preside  in  Hall." 

Zuleika  had  forgotten  there  was  to  be  a  bump- 
supper,  and,  though  she  was  not  very  sure  what 
a  bump-supper  was,  she  felt  it  would  be  a  mockery 
to-night. 

"But  grand-papa — "  she  began. 

"My  dear,  I  cannot  dissociate  myself  from  the 
life  of  the  College.  And,  alas,"  he  said,  looking 
at  the  clock,  "I  must  leave  you  now.  As  soon 
as  you  have  finished  dinner,  you  might,  if  you 
would  care  to,  come  and  peep  down  at  us  from 
the  gallery.  There  is  apt  to  be  some  measure  of 
noise  and  racket,  but  all  of  it  good-humoured  and 
— boys  will  be  boys — pardonable.  Will  you 
come?" 

"Perhaps,  grand-papa,"  she  said  awkwardly. 

Left  alone,  she  hardly  knew  whether  to  laugh 
or  cry.  In  a  moment,  the  butler  came  to  her 
rescue,  telling  her  that  dinner  was  served. 

As  the  figure  of  the  Warden  emerged  from  Salt 
Cellar  into  the  Front  Quadrangle,  a  hush  fell  on 
the  group  of  gowned  Fellows  outside  the  Hall. 
Most  of  them  had  only  just  been  told  the  news, 
and  (such  is  the  force  of  routine  in  an  University) 
were  still  sceptical  of  it.  And  in  face  of  these 
doubts  the  three  or  four  dons  who  had  been 
down  at  the  river  were  now  half  ready  to  believe 
that  there  must,  after  all,  be  some  mistake,  and 


314  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

that  In  this  world  of  illusions  they  had  to-night 
been  specially  tricked.  To  rebut  this  theory,  there 
was  the  notable  absence  of  undergraduates.  Or 
was  this  an  illusion,  too?  Men  of  thought,  agile 
on  the  plane  of  ideas,  devils  of  fellows  among 
books,  they  groped  feebly  in  this  matter  of  actual 
life  and  death.  The  sight  of  their  Warden  heart- 
ened them.  After  all,  he  was  the  responsible 
person.  He  was  father  of  the  flock  that  had 
strayed,  and  grandfather  of  the  beautiful  Miss 
Zuleika. 

Like   her,   they   remembered   not   to   smile   in 
greeting  him. 

"Good  ev^enlng,   gentlemen,"   he   said.      "The 
storm  seems  to  have  passed." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  "Yes,  Warden." 
"And  how  did  our  boat  acquit  itself?" 
There  was  a  shuffling  pause.  Every  one  looked 
at  the  Sub-Warden:  it  was  manifestly  for  him  to 
break  the  news,  or  to  report  the  hallucination. 
He  was  nudged  forward — a  large  man,  with  a 
large  beard  at  which  he  plucked  nervously. 

"Well,    really.    Warden,"    he    said,    "we— we 
hardly  know,"*  and  he  ended  with  what  can  only 

♦Those  of  my  readers  who  are  interested  in  athletic  sports 
will  remember  the  long  controversy  that  raged  as  to  whether 
Judas  had  actually  bumped  Magdalen;  and  they  will  not  need 
to  be  minded  that  it  was  mainly  through  the  evidence  of 
Mr.  E.  T.  A.  Cook,  who  had  been  on  the  towing-path  at  the 
time,  that  the  O.  U.  B.  C.  decided  the  point  in  Judas'  favour, 
and  fixed  the  order  of  the  boats  for  the  following  year  accordingly, 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  315 

be  described  as  a  giggle.  He  fell  low  in  the 
esteem  of  his  fellows. 

Thinking  of  that  past  Sub-Warden  whose  fame 
was  linked  with  the  sun-dial,  the  Warden  eyed 
this  one  keenly. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  presently  said,  "our 
young  men  seem  to  be  already  at  table.  Shall  we 
follow  their  example?"  And  he  led  the  way  up 
the  steps. 

Already  at  table?  The  dons'  dubiety  toyed 
with  this  hypothesis.  But  the  aspect  of  the  Hall's 
interior  was  hard  to  explain  away.  Here  were 
the  three  long  tables,  stretching  white  towards 
the  dais,  and  laden  with  the  usual  crockery  and 
cutlery,  and  with  pots  of  flowers  in  honour  of  the 
occasion.  And  here,  ranged  along  either  wall, 
was  the  usual  array  of  scouts,  motionless,  with 
napkins  across  their  arms.     But  that  was  all. 

It  became  clear  to  the  Warden  that  some  organ- 
ised prank  or  protest  was  afoot.  Dignity  required 
that  he  should  take  no  heed  whatsoever.  Look- 
ing neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  stately  he 
approached  the  dais,  his  Fellows  to  heel. 

In  Judas,  as  in  other  Colleges,  grace  before 
meat  is  read  by  the  Senior  Scholar.  The  Judas 
grace  (composed,  they  say,  by  Christopher  Whit- 
rid  himself)  is  noted  for  its  length  and  for  the 
excellence  of  its  Latinity.  Who  was  to  read  it 
to-night?  The  Warden,  having  searched  his  mind 
vainly  for  a  precedent,  was  driven  to  create  one. 


3i6  ZULF.IKA   DOBSON 

"  The  Junior  Fellow,"  he  said,  "will  read 
grace." 

Blushing  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  with  crab- 
like gait,  Mr.  Pedby,  the  Junior  Fellow,  went 
and  unhooked  from  the  wall  that  little  shield  of 
^vood  on  which  the  words  of  the  grace  are  carven. 
Mr.  Pedby  was — Mr.  Pedby  is — a  mathemati- 
cian. His  treatise  on  the  Higher  Theory  of 
Short  Division  by  Decimals  had  already  won  for 
him  an  European  reputation.  Judas  was — Judas 
is — proud  of  Pedby.  Nor  is  it  denied  that  in 
undertaking  the  duty  thrust  on  him  he  quickly 
controlled  his  nerves  and  read  the  Latin  out  in 
ringing  accents.  Better  for  him  had  he  not  done 
so.  The  false  quantities  he  made  were  so  ex- 
cruciating and  so  many  that,  while  the  very  scouts 
exchanged  glances,  the  dons  at  the  high  table  lost 
all  command  of  their  features,  and  made  horrible 
noises  In  the  effort  to  contain  themselves.  The 
very  Warden  dared  not  look  from  his  plate. 

In  every  breast  around  the  high  table,  behind 
every  shirtfront  or  black  silk  waistcoat,  glowed 
the  recognition  of  a  new  birth.  Suddenly,  un- 
heralded, a  thing  of  highest  destiny  had  fallen 
into  their  academic  midst.  The  stock  of  Common 
Room  talk  had  to-night  been  re-Inforced  and  en- 
riched for  all  time.  Summers  and  winters  would 
come  and  go,  old  faces  would  vanish,  giving  place 
to  new,  but  the  story  of  Pedby's  grace  would  be 
told  always.     Here  was  a  tradition  that  genera- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  317 

tions  of  dons  yet  unborn  would  cherish  and 
chuckle  over.  Something  akin  to  awe  mingled 
itself  with  the  subsiding  merriment.  And  the 
dons,  having  finished  their  soup,  sipped  in  silence 
the  dry  brown  sherry. 

Those  who  sat  opposite  to  the  Warden,  with 
their  backs  to  the  void,  were  oblivious  of  the 
matter  that  had  so  recently  teased  them.  They 
were  conscious  only  of  an  agreeable  hush,  in  which 
they  peered  down  the  vistas  of  the  future,  watch- 
ing the  tradition  of  Pedby's  grace  as  it  rolled 
brighter  and  ever  brighter  down  to  eternity. 

The  pop  of  a  champagne  cork  startled  them 
to  remembrance  that  this  was  a  bump-supper,  and 
a  bump-supper  of  a  peculiar  kind.  The  turbot 
that  came  after  the  soup,  the  champagne  that 
succeeded  the  sherry,  helped  to  quicken  in  these 
men  of  thought  the  power  to  grapple  with  a 
reality.  The  aforesaid  three  or  four  who  had 
been  down  at  the  river  recovered  their  lost  belief 
in  the  evidence  of  their  eyes  and  ears.  In  the 
rest  was  a  spirit  of  receptivity  which,  as  the  meal 
went  on,  mounted  to  conviction.  The  Sub-War- 
den made  a  second  and  more  determined  attempt 
to  enlighten  the  Warden;  but  the  Warden's  eye 
met  his  with  a  suspicion  so  cruelly  pointed  that 
he  again  floundered  and  gave  in. 

All  adown  those  empty  other  tables  gleamed 
the  undisturbed  cutlery,  and  the  flowers  in  the  pots 
innocently  bloomed.     And  all  adown  either  wall, 


3i8  ZULi:iKA    DOBSON 

unneeded  but  undisbandcd,  the  scouts  remained. 
Some  of  the  elder  ones  stood  with  closed  eyes 
and  heads  sunk  forward,  now  and  again  jerking 
themselves  erect,  and  blinking  around,  wondering, 
rcMiembering. 

And  for  a  while  this  scene  was  looked  down  on 
by  a  not  disinterested  stranger.  For  a  while,  her 
chin  propped  on  her  hands,  Zuleika  leaned  over 
the  rail  of  the  gallery,  just  as  she  had  lately 
leaned  over  the  barge's  rail,  staring  down  and 
along.  But  there  was  no  spark  of  triumph  now 
in  her  eyes;  only  a  deep  melancholy;  and  in  her 
mouth  a  taste  as  of  dust  and  ashes.  She  thought 
of  last  night,  and  of  all  the  buoyant  life  that  this 
Hall  had  held.  Of  the  Duke  she  thought,  and  of 
the  whole  vivid  and  eager  throng  of  his  fellows 
in  love.  Her  will,  their  will,  had  been  done.  But 
there  rose  to  her  lips  the  old,  old  question  that 
withers  victory — "To  what  end?"  Her  eyes 
ranged  along  the  tables,  and  an  appalling  sense 
of  loneliness  swept  over  her.  She  turned  away, 
wrapping  the  folds  of  her  cloak  closer  across  her 
breast.  Not  in  this  College  only,  but  through 
and  through  Oxford,  there  was  no  heart  that  beat 
for  her — no,  not  one,  she  told  herself,  with  that 
instinct  for  self-torture  which  comes  to  souls  in 
torment.  She  was  utterly  alone  to-night  in  the 
midst  of  a  vast  indifference.  She!  She!  Was  it 
possible?  Were  the  gods  so  merciless?  Ah  no, 
surely.  .  . 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  319 

Down  at  the  high  table  the  feast  drew  to  its 
close,  and  very  different  was  the  mood  of  the 
feasters  from  that  of  the  young  woman  whose 
glance  had  for  a  moment  rested  on  their  unro- 
mantic  heads.  Generations  of  undergraduates 
had  said  that  Oxford  would  be  all  very  well  but 
for  the  dons.  Do  you  suppose  that  the  dons  had 
had  no  answering  sentiment?  Youth  is  a  very 
good  thing  to  possess,  no  doubt;  but  it  Is  a  tire- 
some setting  for  maturity.  Youth  all  around 
prancing,  vociferating,  mocking;  callow  and  alien 
youth,  having  to  be  looked  after  and  studied  and 
taught,  as  though  nothing  but  it  mattered,  term 
after  term — and  now,  all  of  a  sudden,  in  mid- 
term, peace,  ataraxy,  a  profound  and  leisured  still- 
ness. No  lectures  to  deliver  to-morrow;  no  "es- 
says" to  hear  and  criticise;  time  for  the  unvexed 
pursuit  of  pure  learning.  .  . 

As  the  Fellows  passed  out  on  their  way  to  Com- 
mon Room,  there  to  tackle  with  a  fresh  appetite 
Pedby's  grace,  they  paused,  as  was  their  wont, 
on  the  steps  of  the  Hall,  looking  up  at  the  sky, 
envisaging  the  weather.  The  wind  had  dropped. 
There  was  even  a  glimpse  of  the  moon  riding  be- 
hind the  clouds.  And  now,  a  solemn  and  plangent 
token  of  Oxford's  perpetuity,  the  first  stroke  of 
Great  Tom  sounded. 


XXII 

Stroke  by  stroke,  the  great  familiar  monody  of 
that  Incomparable  curfew  rose  and  fell  in  the 
stillness. 

Nothing  of  Oxford  lingers  more  surely  than  it 
in  the  memory  of  Oxford  men;  and  to  one  revisit- 
ing these  groves  nothing  is  more  eloquent  of  that 
scrupulous  historic  economy  whereby  his  own  par- 
ticular past  is  utilised  as  the  general  present  and 
future.  "All's  as  it  was,  all's  as  it  will  be,"  says 
Great  Tom;  and  that  is  what  he  stubbornly  said 
on  the  evening  I  here  record. 

Stroke  by  measured  and  leisured  stroke,  the 
old  euphonious  clangour  pervaded  Oxford, 
spreading  out  over  the  meadows,  along  the  river, 
audible  in  Iffley.  But  to  the  dim  groups  gather- 
ing and  dispersing  on  either  bank,  and  to  the  silent 
workers  in  the  boats,  the  bell's  message  came 
softened,  equivocal;  came  as  a  requiem  for  these 
dead. 

Over  the  closed  gates  of  Iffley  lock,  the  water 
gushed  down,  eager  for  the  sacrament  of  the  sea. 

Among  the  supine  in  the  field  hard  by,  there 
was  one  whose  breast  bore  a  faint-gleaming  star. 
And  bending  over  him,  looking  down  at  him  with 

320 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  321 

much  love  and  pity  In  her  eyes,  was  the  shade  of 
Nellie  O'Mora,  that  "fairest  witch,"  to  whose 
memory  he  had  to-day  atoned. 

And  yonder,  "sitting  upon  the  river-bank  o'er- 
grown,"  with  questioning  eyes,  was  another  shade, 
more  habituated  to  these  haunts — the  shade 
known  so  well  to  bathers  "in  the  abandoned 
lasher,"  and  to  dancers  "around  the  Fyfield  elm 
in  May."  At  the  bell's  final  stroke,  the  Scholar 
Gipsy  rose,  letting  fall  on  the  water  his  gathered 
wild-flowers,  and  passed  towards  Cumnor. 

And  now,  duly,  throughout  Oxford,  the  gates 
of  the  Colleges  were  closed,  and  closed  were  the 
doors  of  the  lodging-houses.  Every  night,  for 
many  years,  at  this  hour  precisely,  Mrs.  Batch 
had  come  out  from  her  kitchen,  to  turn  the  key  in 
the  front-door.  The  function  had  long  ago  be- 
come automatic.  To-night,  however,  it  was  the 
cue  for  further  tears.  These  did  not  cease  at  her 
return  to  the  kitchen,  where  she  had  gathered 
about  her  some  sympathetic  neighbours — women 
of  her  own  age  and  kind,  capacious  of  tragedy; 
women  who  might  be  relied  on;  founts  of  ejacula- 
tion, wells  of  surmise,  downpours  of  remembered 
premonitions. 

With  his  elbows  on  the  kitchen  table,  and  his 
knuckles  to  his  brow,  sat  Clarence,  intent  on  be- 
lated "prep."  Even  an  eye-witness  of  disaster 
may  pall  if  he  repeat  his  story  too  often.  Clar- 
ence had  noted  in  the  last   recital   that  he  was 


322  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

losing  his  hold  on  ills  audience.  So  now  he  sat 
committing  to  memory  the  names  of  the  cantons 
of  Switzerland,  and  waving  aside  with  a  harsh 
gesture  such  questions  as  were  still  put  to  him 
by  the  women. 

Katie  had  sought  refuge  In  the  need  for  "put- 
ting the  gentlemen's  rooms  straight,"  against  the 
arrival  of  the  two  families  to-morrow.  Duster  in 
hand,  and  by  the  light  of  a  single  candle  that 
barely  survived  the  draught  from  the  open  win- 
dow, she  moved  to  and  fro  about  the  Duke's 
room,  a  wan  and  listless  figure,  casting  queerest 
shadows  on  the  ceiling.  There  were  other  can- 
dles that  she  might  have  lit,  but  this  ambiguous 
gloom  suited  her  sullen  humour.  Yes,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  Katie  was  sullen.  She  had  not  ceased  to 
mourn  the  Duke;  but  it  was  even  more  anger  than 
grief  that  she  felt  at  his  dying.  She  was  as  sure 
as  ever  that  he  had  not  loved  Miss  Dobson;  but 
this  only  made  it  the  more  outrageous  that  he  had 
died  because  of  her.  What  was  there  in  this 
woman  that  men  should  so  demean  themselves 
for  her?  Katie,  as  you  know,  had  at  first  been 
unaffected  by  the  death  of  the  undergraduates  at 
large.  But,  because  they  too  had  died  for  Zu- 
leika,  she  was  bitterly  incensed  against  them  now. 
What  could  they  have  admired  in  such  a  woman? 
She  didn't  even  look  like  a  lady.  Katie  caught 
the  dim  reflection  of  herself  in  the  mirror.  She 
took  the  candle  from  the  table,  and  examined  the 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  323 

reflection  closely.  She  was  sure  she  was  just  as 
pretty  as  Miss  Dobson.  It  was  only  the  clothes 
that  made  the  difference — the  clothes  and  the  be- 
haviour. Katie  threw  back  her  head,  and  smiled 
brilliantly,  hand  on  hip.  She  nodded  reassuringly 
at  herself;  and  the  black  pearl  and  the  pink 
danced  a  duet.  She  put  the  candle  down,  and  un- 
did her  hair,  roughly  parting  it  on  one  side,  and 
letting  it  sweep  down  over  the  further  eyebrow. 
She  fixed  it  in  that  fashion,  and  posed  accordingly. 
Now!  But  gradually  her  smile  relaxed,  and  a 
mist  came  to  her  eyes.  For  she  had  to  admit  that 
even  so,  after  all,  she  hadn't  just  that  something 
which  somehow  Miss  Dobson  had.  She  put  away 
from  her  the  hasty  dream  she  had  had  of  a  whole 
future  generation  of  undergraduates  drowning 
themselves,  every  one,  in  honour  of  her.  She 
went  wearily  on  with  her  work. 

Presently,  after  a  last  look  round,  she  went 
up  the  creaking  stairs,  to  do  Mr.  Noaks'  room. 

She  found  on  the  table  that  screed  which  her 
mother  had  recited  so  often  this  evening.  She 
put  it  in  the  waste-paper  basket. 

Also  on  the  table  were  a  lexicon,  a  Thucydides, 
and  some  note-books.  These  she  took  and  shelved 
without  a  tear  for  the  closed  labours  they  bore 
witness  to. 

The  next  disorder  that  met  her  eye  was  one 
that  gave  her  pause — seemed,  indeed,  to  transfix 
her. 


324  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

Mr.  Noaks  had  never,  since  he  came  to  lodge 
here,  possessed  more  tlian  one  pair  of  boots.  This 
fact  had  been  for  her  a  lasting  source  of  annoy- 
ance; for  it  meant  that  she  had  to  polish  Mr. 
Noaks'  boots  always  in  the  early  morning,  when 
there  •were  so  many  other  things  to  be  done,  in- 
stead of  choosing  her  own  time.  Her  annoyance 
had  been  all  the  keener  because  Mr.  Noaks'  boots 
more  than  made  up  in  size  for  what  they  lacked 
in  number.  Either  of  them  singly  took  more  time 
and  polish  than  any  other  pair  imaginable.  She 
would  have  recognised  them,  at  a  glance,  any- 
where. Even  so  now,  it  was  at  a  glance  that  she 
recognised  the  toes  of  them  protruding  from  be- 
neath the  window-curtain.  She  dismissed  the 
theory  that  Mr.  Noaks  might  have  gone  utterly 
unshod  to  the  river.  She  scouted  the  hypothesis 
that  his  ghost  could  be  shod  thus.  By  process 
of  elimination  she  arrived  at  the  truth. 
"Mr.  Noaks,"  she  said  quietly,  "come  out  of 
there." 

There  was  a  slight  quiver  of  the  curtain;  no 
more.  Katie  repeated  her  words.  There  was  a 
pause,  then  a  convulsion  of  the  curtain.  Noaks 
stood  forth. 

Always,  in  polishing  his  boots,  Katie  had  found 
herself  thinking  of  him  as  a  man  of  prodigious 
stature,  well  though  she  knew  him  to  be  quite 
tiny.  Even  so  now,  at  recognition  of  his  boots, 
she  had  fixed  her  eyes  to  meet  his,  when  he  should 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  325 

emerge,  a  full  yard  too  high.  With  a  sharp  drop 
she  focussed  him. 

"By  what  right,"  he  asked,  "do  you  come  pry- 
ing about  my  room?" 

This  was  a  stroke  so  unexpected  that  it  left 
Katie  mute.  It  equally  surprised  Noaks,  who  had 
been  about  to  throw  himself  on  his  knees  and 
implore  this  girl  not  to  betray  him.  He  was 
quick,  though,  to  clinch  his  advantage. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  the  first  time  I  have  caught 
you.     Let  it  be  the  last." 

Was  this  the  little  man  she  had  so  long  de- 
spised, and  so  superciliously  served?  His  very 
smallness  gave  him  an  air  of  concentrated  force. 
She  remembered  having  read  that  all  the  greatest 
men  in  history  had  been  of  less  than  the  middle 
height.  And — oh,  her  heart  leapt — here  was  the 
one  man  who  had  scorned  to  die  for  Miss  Dob- 
son.  He  alone  had  held  out  against  the  folly  of 
his  fellows.  Sole  and  splendid  survivor  he  stood, 
rock-footed,  before  her.  And  impulsively  she 
abased  herself,  kneeling  at  his  feet  as  at  the  great 
double  altar  of  some  dark  new  faith. 

"You  are  great,  sir,  you  are  wonderful,"  she 
said,  gazing  up  to  him,  rapt.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  ever  called  him  "sir." 

It  is  easier,  as  Michelet  suggested,  for  a  woman 
to  change  her  opinion  of  a  man  than  for  him  to 
change  his  opinion  of  himself.  Noaks,  despite 
the  presence  of  mind  he  had  shown  a  few  moments 


326  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

ago,  still  saw  himself  as  he  had  seen  himself  dur- 
ing the  past  hours:  that  is,  as  an  arrant  little 
coward — one  who  by  his  fear  to  die  had  put  him- 
sell  outside  the  pale  of  decent  manhood.  He  had 
meant  to  escape  from  the  house  at  dead  of  night 
and,  under  an  assumed  name,  w'ork  his  passage 
out  to  Australia — a  land  which  had  always  made 
strong  appeal  to  his  imagination.  No  one,  he 
had  reflected,  would  suppose  because  his  body  was 
not  retrieved  from  the  water  that  he  had  not 
perished  with  the  rest.  And  he  had  looked  to 
Australia  to  make  a  man  of  him  yet :  in  Encounter 
Bay,  perhaps,  or  in  the  Gulf  of  Carpentaria,  he 
might  yet  end  nobly. 

Thus  Katie's  behaviour  was  as  much  an  embar- 
rassment as  a  relief;  and  he  asked  her  in  what 
way  he  was  great  and  wonderful. 

"Modest,  like  all  heroes!"  she  cried,  and,  still 
kneeling,  proceeded  to  sing  his  praises  with  a  so 
infectious  fervour  that  Noaks  did  begin  to  feel 
he  had  done  a  fine  thing  In  not  dying.  After  all, 
was  it  not  moral  cowardice  as  much  as  love  that 
had  tempted  him  to  die?  He  had  wrestled  with 
it,  thrown  it.  "Yes,"  said  he,  when  her  rhapsody 
was  over,  "perhaps  I  am  modest." 

"And  that  is  why  you  hid  yourself  just  now?" 

"Yes,"  he  gladly  said.  "I  hid  myself  for  the 
same  reason,"  he  added,  "when  I  heard  your 
mother's  footstep." 

"But,"    she    faltered,    with    a    sudden    doubt. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  327 

"that  bit  of  writing  which  Mother  found  on  the 
table " 

"That?  Oh,  that  was  only  a  general  reflection, 
copied  out  of  a  book." 

"Oh,  won't  poor  Mother  be  glad  when  she 
knows !" 

"I  don't  want  her  to  know,"  said  Noaks,  with 
a  return  of  nervousness.  "You  mustn't  tell  any 
one.     I — the  fact  is " 

"Ah,  that  is  so  like  you !"  the  girl  said  tenderly. 
"I  suppose  it  was  your  modesty  that  all  this  while 
blinded  me.  Please,  sir,  I  have  a  confession  to 
make  to  you.  Never  till  to-night  have  I  loved 
you." 

Exquisite  was  the  shock  of  these  words  to  one 
who,  not  without  reason,  had  always  assumed  that 
no  woman  would  ever  love  him.  Before  he  knew 
what  he  was  doing,  he  had  bent  down  and  kissed 
the  sweet  upturned  face.  It  was  the  first  kiss 
he  had  ever  given  outside  his  family  circle.  It 
was  an  artless  and  a  resounding  kiss. 

He  started  back,  dazed.  What  manner  of  man, 
he  wondered,  was  he?  A  coward,  piling  pro- 
fligacy on  poltroonery?  Or  a  hero,  claiming  ex- 
emption from  moral  law?  What  was  done  could 
not  be  undone;  but  it  could  be  righted.  He  drew 
off  from  the  little  finger  of  his  left  hand  that  iron 
ring  which,  after  a  twinge  of  rheumatism,  he  had 
to-day  resumed. 

"Wear  it,"  he  said. 


328  ZULKIKA    DOBSON 

"You  mean ?"     She  leapt  to  her  feet. 

"That  we  are  engaged.  I  hope  you  don't  think 
we  have  any  choice?" 

She  clapped  her  hands,  like  the  child  she  was, 
and  adjusted  the   ring. 

"It  is  very  pretty,"  she  said. 

"It  is  very  simple,"  he  answered  lightly.  "But," 
he  added,  with  a  change  of  tone,  "it  is  very 
durable.  And  that  is  the  important  thing.  For 
I  shall  not  be  in  a  position  to  marry  before  I  am 
forty." 

A  shadow  of  disappointment  hovered  over 
Katie's  clear  young  brow,  but  was  instantly 
chased  away  by  the  thought  that  to  be  engaged 
was  almost  as  splendid  as  to  be  married. 

"Recently,"  said  her  lover,  "I  meditated  leav- 
ing Oxford  for  Australia.  But  now  that  you  have 
come  into  my  life,  I  am  compelled  to  drop  that 
notion,  and  to  carve  out  the  career  I  had  first  set 
for  myself.  A  year  hence,  if  I  get  a  Second  in 
Greats — and  I  shall,'"  he  said,  with  a  fierce  look 
that  entranced  her — "I  shall  have  a  very  good 
chance  of  an  assistant-mastership  in  a  good  pri- 
vate school.  In  eighteen  years,  if  I  am  careful — 
and,  with  you  waiting  for  me,  I  shall  be  careful — 
my  savings  will  enable  me  to  start  a  small  school 
of  my  own,  and  to  take  a  wife.  Even  then  it 
would  be  more  prudent  to  wait  another  five  years, 
no  doubt.    But  there  was  always  a  streak  of  mad- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  329 

ness  in  the  Noakses.  I  say  'Prudence  to  the 
winds!'" 

"Ah,  don't  say  that!"  exclaimed  Katie,  laying 
a  hand  on  his  sleeve. 

"You  are  right.  Never  hesitate  to  curb  me. 
And,"  he  said,  touching  the  ring,  "an  idea  has 
just  occurred  to  me.  When  the  time  comes,  let 
this  be  the  wedding-ring.  Gold  is  gaudy — not  at 
all  the  thing  for  a  schoolmaster's  bride.  It  is  a 
pity,"  he  muttered,  examining  her  through  his 
spectacles,  "that  your  hair  is  so  golden.  A  school- 
master's bride  should —  Good  heavens!  Those 
ear-rings!     Where  did  you  get  themT'' 

"They  were  given  to  me  to-day,"  Katie  fal- 
tered.    "The  Duke  gave  me  them." 

"Indeed?" 

"Please,  sir,  he  gave  me  them  as  a  memento." 

"And  that  memento  shall  immediately  be 
handed  over  to  his  executors." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  should  think  so!"  was  on  the  tip  of  Noaks' 
tongue,  but  suddenly  he  ceased  to  see  the  pearls 
as  trinkets  finite  and  inapposite — saw  them,  in  a 
flash,  as  things  transmutable  by  sale  hereafter 
into  desks,  forms,  black-boards,  maps,  lockers, 
cubicles,  gravel  soil,  diet  unlimited,  and  special 
attention  to  backward  pupils.  Simultaneously, 
he  saw  how  mean  had  been  his  motive  for  repu- 
diating the  gift.  What  more  despicable  than 
jealousy  of  a  man  deceased?    What  sillier  than  to 


330  /ULI'.IKA    DOBSOX 

cast  pearls  before  executors?  Sped  by  nothing  but 
the  pulse  of  his  hot  youth,  he  had  wooed  and  won 
this  girl.     Why  flinch  from  her  unsought  dowry? 

He  told  her  his  vision.  Her  eyes  opened  wide 
to  it.  "And  oh,"  she  cried,  "then  we  can  be 
married  as  soon  as  you  take  your  degree!" 

He  bade  her  not  be  so  foolish.  Who  ever  heard 
of  a  head-master  aged  three-and-twenty?  What 
parent  or  guardian  would  trust  a  stripling?  The 
engagement  must  run  its  course.  "And,"  he  said, 
fidgeting,  "do  you  know  that  I  have  hardly  done 
any  reading  to-day?" 

"You  want  to  read  7iozv — to-night  f 

"I  must  put  in  a  good  two  hours.  Where  are 
the  books  that  were  on  my  table?" 

Reverently — he  was  indeed  a  king  of  men — she 
took  the  books  down  from  the  shelf,  and  placed 
them  where  she  had  found  them.  And  she  knew 
not  which  thrilled  her  the  more — the  kiss  he  gave 
her  at  parting,  or  the  tone  In  which  he  told  her 
that  the  one  thing  he  could  not  and  would  not 
stand  was  having  his  books  disturbed. 

Still  less  than  before  attuned  to  the  lugubrious 
session  downstairs,  she  went  straight  up  to  her 
attic,  and  did  a  little  dance  there  in  the  dark. 
She  threw  open  the  lattice  of  the  dormer-window, 
and  leaned  out,  smiling,  throbbing. 

The  Emperors,  gazing  up,  saw  her  happy,  and 
wondered;  saw  Noaks'  ring  on  her  finger,  and 
would  fain  have  shaken  their  grey  heads. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  331 

Presently  she  was  aware  of  a  protrusion  from 
the  window  beneath  hers.  The  head  of  her  be- 
loved! Fondly  she  watched  it,  wished  she  could 
reach  down  to  stroke  it.  She  loved  him  for  hav- 
ing, after  all,  left  his  books.  It  was  sweet  to  be 
his  excuse.  Should  she  call  softly  to  him?  No,  it 
might  shame  him  to  be  caught  truant.  He  had 
already  chidden  her  for  prying.  So  she  did  but 
gaze  down  on  his  head  silently,  wondering  whether 
in  eighteen  years  it  would  be  bald,  wondering 
whether  her  own  hair  would  still  have  the  fault  of 
being  golden.  Most  of  all,  she  wondered  whether 
he  loved  her  half  so  much  as  she  loved  him. 

This  happened  to  be  precisely  what  he  himself 
was  wondering.  Not  that  he  wished  himself  free. 
He  was  one  of  those  In  whom  the  will  does  not, 
except  under  very  great  pressure,  oppose  the  con- 
science. What  pressure  here?  Miss  Batch  was 
a  superior  girl;  she  would  grace  any  station  in 
life.  He  had  always  been  rather  in  awe  of  her. 
It  was  a  fine  thing  to  be  suddenly  loved  by  her, 
to  be  In  a  position  to  over-rule  her  every  whim. 
Plighting  his  troth,  he  had  feared  she  would  be 
an  encumbrance,  only  to  find  she  was  a  lever. 
But — was  he  deeply  in  love  with  her?  How  was 
it  that  he  could  not  at  this  moment  recall  her  fea- 
tures, or  the  tone  of  her  voice,  while  of  deplorable 
Miss  Dobson,  every  lineament,  every  accent,  so 
vividly  haunted  him?  Try  as  he  would  to  beat 
off   these   memories,   he   failed,    and — some   very 


:,i,2  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

great  pressure  here! — was  glad  lie  failed;  glad 
though  he  found  himself  relapsing  to  the  self- 
contempt  from  which  Miss  Batch  had  raised  him. 
He  scorned  himself  for  being  alive.  And  again, 
he  scorned  himself  for  his  Infidelity.  Yet  he  was 
glad  he  could  not  forget  that  face,  that  voice — 
that  queen.  She  had  smiled  at  him  when  she 
borrowed  the  ring.  She  had  said  "Thank  you." 
Oh,  and  now,  at  this  very  moment,  sleeping  or 
waking,  actually  she  was  somewhere — she!  her- 
self! This  was  an  incredible,  an  Indubitable,  an 
all-magical  fact  for  the  little  fellow. 

From  the  street  below  came  a  faint  cry  that 
was  as  the  cry  of  his  own  heart,  uttered  by  her 
own  lips.  Quaking,  he  peered  down,  and  dimly 
saw,  over  the  way,  a  cloaked  woman. 

She — yes,  it  was  she  herself — came  gliding  to 
the  middle  of  the  road,  gazing  up  at  him. 

"At  last!"  he  heard  her  say.  His  instinct  was 
to  hide  himself  from  the  queen  he  had  not  died 
for.     Yet  he  could  not  move. 

"Or,"  she  quavered,  "are  you  a  phantom  sent 
to  mock  me?    Speak!" 

"Good  evening,"  he  said  huskily. 

"I  knew,"  she  murmured,  "I  knew  the  gods 
were  not  so  cruel.  Oh  man  of  my  need,"  she 
cried,  stretching  out  her  arms  to  him,  "oh  heaven- 
sent, I  see  you  only  as  a  dark  outline  against  the 
light  of  your  room.  But  I  know  you.  Your  name 
Is  Xoaks,  Isn't  It?     Dobson  Is  mine.     I  am  your 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  333 

Warden's  grand-daughter.  I  am  faint  and  foot- 
sore. I  have  ranged  this  desert  city  in  search 
of — of  you.  Let  me  hear  from  your  own  lips  that 
you  love  me.  Tell  me  in  your  own  words — " 
She  broke  off  with  a  little  scream,  and  did  not 
stand  with  forefinger  pointed  at  him,  gazing,  gasp- 
ing. 

"Listen,  Miss  Dobson,"  he  stammered,  writh- 
ing under  what  he  took  to  be  the  lash  of  her  irony. 
"Give  me  time  to  explain.     You  see  me  here — " 

"Hush,"  she  cried,  "man  of  my  greater,  my 
deeper  and  nobler  need!  Oh  hush,  ideal  which 
not  consciously  I  was  out  for  to-night — ideal 
vouchsafed  to  me  by  a  crowning  mercy  I  I  sought 
a  lover,  I  find  a  master.  I  sought  but  a  live  youth, 
was  blind  to  what  his  survival  would  betoken. 
Oh  master,  you  think  me  light  and  wicked.  You 
stare  coldly  down  at  me  through  your  spectacles, 
whose  glint  I  faintly  discern  now  that  the  moon 
peeps  forth.  You  would  be  readier  to  forgive 
me  the  havoc  I  have  wrought  if  you  could  for 
the  life  of  you  understand  what  charm  your 
friends  found  in  me.  You  marvel,  as  at  the 
skull  of  Helen  of  Troy.  No,  you  don't  think 
me  hideous:  you  simply  think  me  plain.  There 
was  a  time  when  I  thought  you  plain — you  whose 
face,  now  that  the  moon  shines  full  on  it,  is  seen 
to  be  of  a  beauty  that  is  flawless  without  being 
insipid.  Oh  that  T  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 
that  I  might  touch  that  cheek!      You   shudder 


334  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

at  the  notion  of  such  contact.  My  voice  grates 
on  you.  Vou  try  to  silence  me  with  trantic  though 
exquisite  gestures,  and  with  noises  inarticulate 
but  divine.  I  bow  to  your  will,  master.  Chasten 
me  with  your  tongue." 

"I  am  not  what  you  think  me,"  gibbered 
Noaks.  "I  was  not  afraid  to  die  for  you.  I  love 
you.  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  river  this  afternoon, 
but  I — I  tripped  and  sprained  my  ankle,  and — and 
jarred  my  spine.  They  carried  me  back  here,  I 
am  still  very  weak.  I  can't  put  my  foot  to  the 
ground.     As  soon  as  I  can " 

Just  then  Zuleika  heard  a  little  sharp  sound 
which,  for  the  fraction  of  an  instant,  before  she 
knew  it  to  be  a  clink  of  metal  on  the  pavement, 
she  thought  was  the  breaking  of  the  heart  within 
her.  Looking  quickly  down,  she  heard  a  shrill 
girlish  laugh  aloft.  Looking  quickly  up,  she 
descried  at  the  unlit  window  above  her  lover's  a 
face  which  she  remembered  as  that  of  the  land- 
lady's daughter. 

"Find  it,  Miss  Dobson,"  laughed  the  girl. 
"Crawl  for  it.  It  can't  have  rolled  far,  and  it's 
the  only  engagement-ring  you'll  get  from  him," 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  livid  face  twisted  pain- 
fully up  at  her  from  the  lower  window.  "Grovel 
for  it,  Miss  Dobson.  Ask  him  to  step  down  and 
help  you.  Oh,  he  can!  That  w^as  all  lies  about 
his  spine  and  ankle.  Afraid,  that's  w^hat  he 
was — I  see  it  all  now — afraid  of  the  water.     I 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  335 

wish  you'd  found  him  as  I  did — skulking  behind 
the  curtain.     Oh,  you're  welcome  to  him." 

"Don't  listen,"  Noaks  cried  down.  "Don't 
listen  to  that  person.  I  admit  I  have  trifled  with 
her  affections.  This  is  her  revenge — these  wicked 
untruths — these — these " 

Zuleika  silenced  him  with  a  gesture.  "Your 
tone  to  me,"  she  said  up  to  Katie,  "is  not  without 
offence;  but  the  stamp  of  truth  is  on  what  you 
tell  me.  We  have  both  been  deceived  in  this 
man,  and  are,  in  some  sort,  sisters." 

"Sisters?"  cried  Katie.  "Your  sisters  are  the 
snake  and  the  spider,  though  neither  of  them 
wishes  it  known.  I  loathe  you.  And  the  Duke 
loathed  you,  too." 

"What's  that?"  gasped  Zuleika. 

"Didn't  he  tell  you?  He  told  me.  And  I  war- 
rant he  told  you,  too." 

"He  died  for  love  of  me:  d'you  hear?" 

"Ah,  you'd  like  people  to  think  so,  wouldn't 
you?  Does  a  man  who  loves  a  woman  give  away 
the  keepsake  she  gave  him?  Look!"  Katie 
leaned  forward,  pointing  to  her  ear-rings.  "He 
loved  wj^,"  she  cried.  He  put  them  in  with  his 
own  hands — told  me  to  wear  them  always.  And 
he  kissed  me — kissed  me  good-bye  in  the  street, 
where  e^-ery  one  could  see.  He  kissed  me,"  she 
sobbed.     "No  other  man  shall  ever  do  that." 

"Ah,  that  he  did!"  said  a  voice  level  with 
Zuleika.     It  was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Batch,  who 


3iG  ZULI'.IKA    DOBSON 

a  lew  iiunncnts  ago  had  opened  the  door  for  her 
tlepartlng  guests. 

"Ah,  that  he  did !"  echoed  the  guests. 

"Never  mind  them,  Miss  Dobson,"  cried 
Noaks,  and  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  Mrs.  Batch 
rushed  into  the  middle  of  the  road,  to  gaze  up. 
"/  love  you.    Think  what  you  will  of  me.    I " 

"You!"  flashed  Zuleika.  "As  for  you,  little 
Sir  Lily  Liver,  leaning  out  there,  and,  I  frankly 
tell  you,  looking  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  gar- 
goyle hewn  by  a  drunken  stone-mason  for  the 
adornment  of  a  Methodist  Chapel  in  one  of  the 
vilest  suburbs  of  Leeds  or  Wigan,  I  do  but  felici- 
tate the  river-god  and  his  nymphs  that  their  water 
was  saved  to-day  by  your  cowardice  from  the  con- 
tamination of  your  plunge." 

"Shame  on  you,  Mr.  Noaks,"  said  Mrs.  Batch, 
"making  believe  you  were  dead " 

"Shame!"  screamed  Clarence,  who  had  darted 
out  into  the  fray. 

"I  found  him  hiding  behind  the  curtain," 
chimed  in  Katie. 

"And  I  a  mother  to  him!"  said  Mrs.  Batch, 
shaking  her  fist.  "  'What  is  life  without  love?' 
indeed!     Oh,  the  cowardly,  underhand " 

"Wretch,"  prompted  her  cronies. 

"Let's  kick  him  out  of  the  house!"  suggested 
Clarence,  dancing  for  joy. 

Zuleika,  smiling  brilliantly  down  at  the  boy, 
said  "Just  you  run  up  and  fight  him!" 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  337 

"Right  you  are,"  he  answered,  with  a  look  of 
knightly  devotion,  and  darted  back  into  the  house. 

"No  escape!"  she  cried  up  to  Noaks.  "You've 
got  to  fight  him  now.  He  and  you  are  just  about 
evenly  matched,  I  fancy." 

But,  grimly  enough,  Zuleika's  estimate  was 
never  put  to  the  test.  Is  it  harder  for  a  coward 
to  fight  with  his  fists  than  to  kill  himself?  Or 
again,  is  it  easier  for  him  to  die  than  to  endure 
a  prolonged  cross-fire  of  women's  wrath  and 
scorn?  This  I  know:  that  in  the  life  of  even  the 
least  and  meanest  of  us  there  is  somewhere  one 
fine  moment — one  high  chance  not  missed.  I  like 
to  think  it  was  by  operation  of  this  law  that  Noaks 
had  now  clambered  out  upon  the  window-sill, 
silencing,  sickening,  scattering  like  chaff  the  women 
beneath  him. 

He  was  already  not  there  when  Clarence 
bounded  into  the  room.  "Come  onl"  yelled  the 
boy,  first  thrusting  his  head  behind  the  door,  then 
diving  beneath  the  table,  then  plucking  aside  either 
window-curtain,  vowing  vengeance. 

Vengeance  was  not  his.  Down  on  the  road 
without,  not  yet  looked  at  but  by  the  steadfast 
eyes  of  the  Emperors,  the  last  of  the  undergradu- 
ates lay  dead;  and  fleet-footed  Zuleika,  with  her 
fingers  still  pressed  to  her  ears,  had  taken  full  toll 
now. 


XXIII 

Twisting  and  turning  In  her  flight,  with  wild  eyes 
that  fearfully  retained  the  Image  of  that  small 
man  gathering  himself  to  spring,  Zulelka  found 
herself  suddenly  where  she  could  no  further  go. 

She  was  In  that  grim  ravine  by  which  you  ap- 
proach New  College.  At  sight  of  the  great  shut 
gate  before  her,  she  halted,  and  swerved  to  the 
wall.  She  set  her  brow  and  the  palms  of  her 
hands  against  the  cold  stones.  She  threw  back 
her  head,  and  beat  the  stones  with  her  fists. 

It  was  not  only  what  she  had  seen.  It  was  what 
she  had  barely  saved  herself  from  seeing,  and 
what  she  had  not  quite  saved  herself  from  hear- 
ing, that  she  strove  so  piteously  to  forget.  She 
was  sorrier  for  herself,  angrier,  than  she  had  been 
last  night  when  the  Duke  laid  hands  on  her.  Why 
should  every  day  have  a  horrible  ending?  Last 
night  she  had  avenged  herself.  To-night's  out- 
rage was  all  the  more  foul  and  mean  because  of 
Its  certain  immunity.  And  the  fact  that  she  had 
in  some  measure  brought  It  on  herself  did  but  whip 
her  rage.  What  a  fool  she  had  been  to  taunt 
the  man!  Yet  no,  how  could  she  have  foreseen 
that  he  would — do  that?     How  could  she  have 

338 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  339 

guessed  that  he,  who  had  not  dared  seemly  death 
for  her  in  the  gentle  river,  would  dare — 
that? 

She  shuddered  the  more  as  she  now  remem- 
bered that  this  very  day,  in  that  very  house,  she 
had  invited  for  her  very  self  a  similar  fate.  What 
if  the  Duke  had  taken  her  word?  Strange!  she 
wouldn't  have  flinched  then.  She  had  felt  no 
horror  at  the  notion  of  such  a  death.  And  thus 
she  now  saw  Noaks'  conduct  in  a  new  light — saw 
that  he  had  but  wished  to  prove  his  love,  not  at 
all  to  affront  her.  This  understanding  quickly 
steadied  her  nerves.  She  did  not  need  now  to 
forget  what  she  had  seen;  and,  not  needing  to 
forget  it — thus  are  our  brains  fashioned — she 
was  able  to  forget  it. 

But  by  removal  of  one  load  her  soul  was  but 
bared  for  a  more  grievous  other.  Her  memory 
harked  back  to  what  had  preceded  the  crisis.  She 
recalled  those  moments  of  doomed  rapture  in 
which  her  heart  had  soared  up  to  the  apoca- 
lyptic window — recalled  how,  all  the  while  she  was 
speaking  to  the  man  there,  she  had  been  chafed  by 
the  inadequacy  of  language.  Oh,  how  much  more 
she  had  meant  than  she  could  express!  Oh,  the 
ecstasy  of  that  self-surrender!  And  the  brevity 
of  it!  the  sudden  odious  awakening!  Thrice  in 
this  Oxford  she  had  been  duped.  Thrice  all  that 
was  fine  and  sweet  in  her  had  leapt  forth,  only 
to   be   scourged   back   into   hiding.      Poor  heart 


340  ZL:Lr:iKA    DOBSON 

inhibited!  She  gazed  about  her.  The  stone  alley 
she  had  come  into,  the  terrible  shut  gate,  were  for 
her  a  visible  symbol  of  the  destiny  she  had  to  put 
up  with.  Wringing  her  hands,  she  hastened  along 
the  way  she  had  come.  She  vowed  she  would 
never  again  set  foot  in  Oxford.  She  wished  her- 
self out  of  the  hateful  little  city  to-night.  She 
even  wished  herself  dead. 

She  deserved  to  suffer,  you  say?  Maybe.  I 
merely  state  that  she  did  suffer. 

Emerging  into  Catherine  Street,  she  knew 
whereabouts  she  was,  and  made  straight  for 
Judas,  turning  away  her  eyes  as  she  skirted  the 
Broad,  that  place  of  mocked  hopes  and  shattered 
ideals. 

Coming  into  Judas  Street,  she  remembered  the 
scene  of  yesterday — the  happy  man  with  her,  the 
noise  of  the  vast  happy  crowd.  She  suffered  in 
a  worse  form  what  she  had  suffered  in  the  gallery 
of  the  Hall.  For  now — did  I  not  say  she  was 
not  without  imagination? — her  self-pity  was 
sharpened  by  remorse  for  the  hundreds  of  homes 
robed.  She  realised  the  truth  of  what  the  poor 
Duke  had  once  said  to  her:  she  was  a  danger  in 
the  world  .  .  .  Aye,  and  all  the  more  dire  now. 
What  if  the  youth  of  all  Europe  were  moved  by 
Oxford's  example?  That  was  a  horribly  possible 
thing.  It  must  be  reckoned  with.  It  must  be 
averted.  She  must  not  show  herself  to  men.  She 
must   find    some    hiding-place,    and   there    abide. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  341 

Were  this  a  hardship?  she  asked  herself.  Was 
she  not  sickened  for  ever  of  men's  homage?  And 
was  it  not  clear  now  that  the  absorbing  need  in 
her  soul,  the  need  to  love,  would  never — except 
for  a  brief  while,  now  and  then,  and  by  an  unfor- 
tunate misunderstanding — be  fulfilled? 

So  long  ago  that  you  may  not  remember,  I 
compared  her  favourably  with  the  shepherdess 
Marcella,  and  pleaded  her  capacity  for  passion  as 
an  excuse  for  her  remaining  at  large.  I  hope  you 
will  now,  despite  your  rather  evident  animus 
against  her,  set  this  to  her  credit:  that  she  did, 
so  soon  as  she  realised  the  hopelessness  of  her 
case,  make  just  that  decision  which  I  blamed  Mar- 
cella for  not  making  at  the  outset.  It  was  as  she 
stood  on  the  Warden's  door-step  that  she  decided 
to  take  the  veil. 

With  something  of  a  conventual  hush  in  her 
voice,  she  said  to  the  butler,  "Please  tell  my  maid 
that  we  are  leaving  by  a  very  early  train  to-mor- 
row, and  that  she  must  pack  my  things  to-night." 

"Very  well.  Miss,"  said  the  butler.  "The 
Warden,"  he  added,  "is  in  the  study,  Miss,  and 
was  asking  for  you." 

She  could  face  her  grandfather  without  a 
tremour — now.  She  would  hear  meekly  whatever 
reproaches  he  might  have  for  her,  but  their  sting 
was  already  drawn  by  the  surprise  she  had  in 
store  for  him. 

It  was  he  who  seemed  a  trifle  nervous.     In  his 


342  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

"Well,  did  you  come  and  peep  down  from  the 
gallery?"  there  was  a  distinct  tremour. 

Throwing  aside  her  cloak,  she  went  quickly  to 
him,  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 
"Poor  grand-papa  !"  she  said. 

"Nonsense,  my  dear  child,"  he  replied,  disen- 
gaging himself.  "I  didn't  give  it  a  thought.  If 
the  young  men  chose  to  be  so  silly  as  to  stay  away, 
I—  I—" 

"Grand-papa,  haven't  you  been  told  yetV 

"Told?  I  am  a  Gallio  for  such  follies.  I 
didn't  inquire." 

"But  (forgive  me,  grand-papa,  if  I  seem  to 
you,  for  the  moment,  pert)  you  are  Warden  here. 
It  is  your  duty,  even  your  privilege,  to  guard.  Is 
it  not?  Well,  I  grant  you  the  adage  that  it  is 
useless  to  bolt  the  stable  door  when  the  horse  has 
been  stolen.  But  what  shall  be  said  of  the  ostler 
who  doesn't  know — won't  even  'inquire'  whether 
— the  horse  has  been  stolen,  grand-papa?" 

"You  speak  in  riddles,  Zuleika." 

"I  wish  with  all  my  heart  I  need  not  tell  you 
the  answers.  I  think  I  have  a  very  real  grievance 
against  your  staff — or  whatever  it  is  you  call  your 
subordinates  here.  I  go  so  far  as  to  dub  them 
dodderers.  And  I  shall  the  better  justify  that 
term  by  not  shirking  the  duty  they  have  left  un- 
done. The  reason  why  there  were  no  under- 
graduates in  your  Hall  to-night  is  that  they  were 
all  dead." 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  343 

"Dead?"  he  gasped.  "Dead?  It  is  disgrace- 
ful that  I  was  not  told.    What  did  they  die  of?" 

"Of  me." 
.     "Of  you?" 

"Yes,  I  am  an  epidemic,  grand-papa,  a 
scourge,  such  as  the  world  has  not  known.  Those* 
young  men  drowned  themselves  for  love  of  me." 

He  came  towards  her.  "Do  you  realise,  girl, 
what  this  means  to  me?  I  am  an  old  man.  For 
more  than  half  a  century  I  have  known  this  Col- 
lege. To  it,  when  my  wife  died,  I  gave  all  that 
there  was  of  heart  left  in  me.  For  thirty  years 
I  have  been  Warden;  and  in  that  charge  has 
been  all  my  pride.  I  have  had  no  thought  but 
for  this  great  College,  its  honour  and  prosperity. 
More  than  once  lately  have  I  asked  myself 
whether  my  eyes  were  growing  dim,  my  hand  less 
steady.  'No'  was  my  answer,  and  again  'No.' 
And  thus  it  is  that  I  have  lingered  on  to  let  Judas 
be  struck  down  from  its  high  eminence,  shamed 
in  the  eyes  of  England — a  College  for  ever 
tainted,  and  of  evil  omen."  He  raised  his  head. 
"The  disgrace  to  myself  is  nothing.  I  care  not 
how  parents  shall  rage  against  me,  and  the  Heads 
of  other  Colleges  make  merry  over  my  decrepi- 
tude. It  is  because  you  have  wrought  the  down- 
fall of  Judas  that  I  am  about  to  lay  my  undying 
curse  on  you." 

"You  mustn't  do  that!"  she  cried.  "It  would 
be  a  sort  of  sacrilege.     I  am  going  to  be  a  nun. 


344  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

Besides,  why  should  you?  1  can  (]uite  well  under- 
stand your  feeling  for  Judas.  But  how  is  Judas 
more  disgraced  than  any  other  College?  If  it 
were  only  the  Judas  undergraduates  who 
had " 

"There  were  others?" cried  the  Warden.  "How 
many: 

"All.     All  the  boys  from  all  the  Colleges." 

The  Warden  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "Of  course," 
he  said,  "this  changes  the  aspect  of  the  whole 
matter.  I  wish  you  had  made  it  clear  at  once. 
You  gave  me  a  very  great  shock,"  he  said  sinking 
into  his  arm-chair,  "and  I  have  not  yet  recovered. 
You  must  study  the  art  of  exposition." 

"That  will  depend  on  the  rules  of  the  convent." 

"Ah,  I  forgot  that  you  were  going  into  a  con- 
vent.    Anglican,  I  hope?" 

Anglican,  she  supposed. 

"As  a  young  man,"  he  said,  "I  saw  much  of 
dear  old  Dr.  Pusey.  It  might  have  somewhat 
reconciled  him  to  my  marriage  if  he  had  known 
that  my  grand-daughter  would  take  the  veil."  He 
adjusted  his  glasses,  and  looked  at  her.  "Are 
you  sure  you  have  a  vocation?" 

"Yes.  I  want  to  be  out  of  the  w'orld.  I  want 
to  do  no  more  harm." 

He  eyed  her  musingly.  "That,"  he  said,  "is 
rather  a  revulsion  than  a  vocation.  I  remember 
that  I  ventured  to  point  out  to  Dr.  Pusey  the 
difference  between  those  two  things,  when  he  was 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  345 

almost  persuading  me  to  enter  a  Brotherhood 
founded  by  one  of  his  friends.  It  may  be  that 
the  world  would  be  well  rid  of  you,  my  dear  child. 
But  it  is  not  the  world  only  that  we  must  con- 
sider. Would  you  grace  the  recesses  of  the 
Church?" 

"I  could  but  try,"  said  Zuleika. 

"  'You  could  but  try'  are  the  very  words  Dr. 
Pusey  used  to  me.  I  ventured  to  say  that  in  such 
a  matter  effort  itself  was  a  stigma  of  unfitness. 
For  all  my  moods  of  revulsion,  I  knew  that  my 
place  was  in  the  world.     I  stayed  there." 

"But  suppose,  grand-papa" — and,  seeing  in 
fancy  the  vast  agitated  flotilla  of  crinolines,  she 
could  not  forbear  a  smile — "suppose  all  the  young 
ladies  of  that  period  had  drowned  themselves  for 
love  of  you?" 

Her  smile  seemed  to  nettle  the  Warden.  "I 
was  greatly  admired,"  he  said.  "Greatly,"  he 
repeated. 

"And  you  liked  that,  grand-papa?" 

"Yes,  my  dear.  Yes,  I  am  afraid  I  did.  But  I 
never  encouraged  it." 

"Your  own  heart  was  never  touched?" 

"Never,  until  I  met  Laura  Frith." 

"Who  was  she?" 

"She  was  my  future  wife." 

"And  how  was  it  you  singled  her  out  from  the 
rest?     Was  she  very  beautiful?" 

"No.    It  cannot  be  said  that  she  was  beautiful. 


346  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

Indeed,  she  was  accounted  plain.  I  think  it  was 
her  great  dignity  that  attracted  me.  She  did  not 
sniile  archly  at  me,  nor  shake  her  ringlets.  In 
those  days  it  was  the  fashion  for  young  ladies  to 
embroider  slippers  for  such  men  in  holy  orders 
as  best  pleased  their  fancy.  I  received  hundreds 
— thousands — of  such  slippers.  But  never  a  pair 
from  Laura  Frith." 

"She  did  not  love  you?"  asked  Zuleika,  who 
had  seated  herself  on  the  floor  at  her  grand- 
father's feet. 

"I  concluded  that  she  did  not.  It  interested 
me  very  greatly.     It  fired  me." 

"Was  she  Incapable  of  love?" 

"No,  it  was  notorious  in  her  circle  that  she  had 
loved  often,  but  loved  in  vain." 

"Why  did  she  marry  you?" 

"I  think  she  was  fatigued  by  my  importunities. 
She  was  not  very  strong.  But  it  may  be  that  she 
married  me  out  of  pique.  She  never  told  me.  I 
did  not  inquire." 

"Yet  you  were  very  happy  with  her?" 

"While  she  lived,  I  was  ideally  happy." 

The  young  woman  stretched  out  a  hand,  and 
laid  it  on  the  clasped  hands  of  the  old  man.  He 
sat  gazing  into  the  past.  She  was  silent  for  a 
while;  and  in  her  eyes,  still  fixed  intently  on  his 
face,  there  were  tears. 

"Grand-papa  dear" — but  there  were  tears  in 
her  voice,  too. 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  347 

"My  child,  you  don't  understand.  If  I  had 
needed  pity " 

"I  do  understand — so  well.  I  wasn't  pitying 
you,  dear,  I  was  envying  you  a  little." 

"Me? — an  old  man  with  only  the  remembrance 
of  happiness?" 

"You,  who  have  had  happiness  granted  to  you. 
That  isn't  what  made  me  cry,  though,  I  cried 
because  I  was  glad.  You  and  I,  with  all  this 
great  span  of  years  between  us,  and  yet — so  won- 
derfully alike !  I  had  always  thought  of  myself 
as  a  creature  utterly  apart." 

"Ah,  that  is  how  all  young  people  think  of 
themselves.  It  wears  off.  Tell  me  about  this 
wonderful  resemblance  of  ours." 

He  sat  attentive  while  she  described  her  heart 
to  him.  But  when,  at  the  close  of  her  confidences, 
she  said  "So  you  see  it's  a  case  of  sheer  heredity, 
grand-papa,"  the  word  "Fiddlesticks!"  would  out. 

"Forgive  me,  my  dear,"  he  said,  patting  her 
hand.  "I  was  very  much  interested.  But  I  do 
believe  young  people  are  even  more  staggered 
by  themselves  than  they  were  in  my  day.  And 
then,  all  these  grand  theories  they  fall  back  on ! 
Heredity.  .  .  as  if  there  were  something  to  baffle 
us  in  the  fact  of  a  young  woman  liking  to  be 
admired!  And  as  if  it  were  passing  strange  of 
her  to  reserve  her  heart  for  a  man  she  can  respect 
and  look  up  to !  And  as  if  a  man's  indifference  to 
her  were  not  of  all  things  the  likeliest  to  give 


34S  ZLI.l.IKA    DOBSON 

licr  a  sense  of  inferiority  to  him!  You  and  I, 
my  dear,  may  in  some  respects  be  very  queer 
people,  but  in  the  matter  of  the  affections  we  are 
ordinary  enough." 

"Oh  grand-papa,  do  you  really  mean  that?" 
she  cried  eagerly. 

"At  my  age,  a  man  husbands  his  resources. 
He  says  nothing  that  he  does  not  really  mean. 
The  indifference  between  you  and  other  young 
women  is  that  which  lay  also  between  me  and 
other  young  men:  a  special  attractiveness.  .  . 
Thousands  of  slippers,  did  I  say?  Tens  of  thous- 
ands. I  had  hoarded  them  with  a  fatuous  pride. 
On  the  evening  of  my  betrothal  I  made  a  bonfire 
of  them,  visible  from  three  counties.  I  danced 
round  it  all  night."  And  from  his  old  eyes  darted 
even  now  the  reflections  of  those  flames. 

"Glorious!"  whispered  Zuleika.  "But  ah," 
she  said,  rising  to  her  feet,  "tell  me  no  more  of 
it — poor  me!  You  see,  it  isn't  a  mere  special  at- 
tractiveness that  /  have.    /  am  irresistible." 

"A  daring  statement,  my  child — very  hard  to 
prove." 

"Hasn't  it  been  proved  up  to  the  hilt  to-day?" 

"To-day?  .  .  Ah,  and  so  they  did  really  all 
drown  themselves  for  you?  .  .  Dear,  dear!  .  . 
The  Duke— he,  too?" 

"He  set  the  example." 

"No!  You  don't  say  so!  He  was  a  greatly- 
gifted  young  man — a  true  ornament  to  the  Col- 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  349 

lege.  But  he  always  seemed  to  me  rather — what 
shall  I  say? — inhuman  .  .  .  I  remember  now  that 
he  did  seem  rather  excited  when  he  came  to  the 
concert  last  night  and  you  weren't  yet  there.  .  . 
You  are  quite  sure  you  were  the  cause  of  his 
death?" 

"Quite,"  said  Zuleika,  marvelling  at  the  lie — 
or  fib,  rather:  he  had  been  going  to  die  for  her. 
But  why  not  have  told  the  truth  ?  Was  it  possible, 
she  wondered,  that  her  wretched  vanity  had  sur- 
vived her  renunciation  of  the  world?  Why  had 
she  so  resented  just  now  the  doubt  cast  on  that 
irresistibility  which  had  blighted  and  cranked  her 
whole  life? 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  Warden,  "I  confess 
that  I  am  amazed — astounded."  Again  he  ad- 
justed his  glasses,  and  looked  at  her. 

She  found  herself  moving  slowly  around  the 
study,  with  the  gait  of  a  mannequin  in  a  dress- 
maker's show-room.  She  tried  to  stop  this;  but 
her  body  seemed  to  be  quite  beyond  control  of 
her  mind.  It  had  the  insolence  to  go  ambling 
on  its  own  account.  "Little  space  you'll  have 
in  a  convent  cell,"  snarled  her  mind  vindictively. 
Her  body  paid  no  heed  whatever. 

Her  grandfather,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
gazed  at  the  ceiling,  and  meditatively  tapped  the 
finger-tips  of  one  hand  against  those  of  the  other. 
"Sister  Zuleika,"  he  presently  said  to  the  ceiling. 

"Well?   and  what   is   there   so — so   ridiculous 


350  ZULF.IKA    DOBSOX 

in" — but  tlic  rest  was  lost  in  trill  after  trill  of 
laughter;  and  these  were  then  lost  in  sobs. 

The  Warden  had  risen  from  his  ehair.  "My 
dear,"  he  said,  "I  wasn't  laughing.  I  was  only — 
trying  to  imagine.  If  you  really  want  to  retire 
from " 

"I  do,"  moaned  Zuleika. 

"Then  perhaps " 

"But  I  don't,"  she  wailed. 

"Of  course,  you  don't,  my  dear." 

"Why,  of  course?" 

"Come,  you  are  tired,  my  poor  child.  That  is 
very  natural  after  this  wonderful,  this  historic 
day.  Come  dry  your  eyes.  There,  that's  better. 
To-morrow " 

"I  do  believe  you're  a  little  proud  of  me." 

"Heaven  forgive  me,  I  believe  I  am.  A  grand- 
father's  heart But   there,   good   night,   my 

dear.     Let  me  light  your  candle." 

She  took  her  cloak,  and  followed  him  out  to 
the  hall  table.  There  she  mentioned  that  she 
was  going  away  early  to-morrow. 

"To  the  convent?"  he  slyly  asked. 

"Ah,  don't  tease  me,  grand-papa." 

"Well,  I  am  sorry  you  are  going  away,  my 
dear.  But  perhaps,  in  the  circumstances,  it  is 
best.  You  must  come  and  stay  here  again,  later 
on,"  he  said,  handing  her  the  lit  candle.  "Not 
in  term-time,  though,"  he  added. 

"No,"  she  echoed,  "  not  in  term-time." 


XXIV 

From  the  shifting  gloom  of  the  stair-case  to  the 
soft  radiance  cast  through  the  open  door  of  her 
bedroom  was  for  poor  Zuleika  an  almost  heart- 
ening transition.  She  stood  awhile  on  the  thres- 
hold, watching  Melisande  dart  to  and  fro  like  a 
shuttle  across  a  loom.  Already  the  main  part  of 
the  packing  seemed  to  have  been  accomplished. 
The  wardrobe  was  a  yawning  void,  the  carpet  was 
here  and  there  visible,  many  of  the  trunks  were 
already  brimming  and  foaming  over  .  .  .  Once 
more  on  the  road!  Somewhat  as,  when  beneath 
the  stars  the  great  tent  had  been  struck,  and  the 
lions  were  growling  in  their  vans,  and  the  horses 
were  pawing  the  stamped  grass  and  whinnying, 
and  the  elephants  trumpeting,  Zuleika's  mother 
may  often  have  felt  within  her  a  wan  exhilaration, 
so  now  did  the  heart  of  that  mother's  child  rise 
and  flutter  amidst  the  familiar  bustle  of  "being 
off."  Weary  she  was  of  the  world,  and  angry  she 
was  at  not  being,  after  all,  good  enough  for  some- 
thing better.  And  yet — well,  at  least,  good-bye 
to  Oxford! 

She  envied  Melisande,  so  nimbly  and  cheerfully 
laborious  till  the  day  should  come  when  her  be- 


352  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

trothed  had  saved  cnou^li  to  start  a  little  cafe 
of  his  own  and  make  lier  his  bride  and  Jami'  dc 
CDinploir.  Oh,  to  liave  a  purpose,  a  prospect,  a 
stake  in  the  world,  as  this  faithful  soul  had! 

"Can  I  help  you  at  all,  Melisande?"  she  asked, 
picking  her  way  across  the  strewn  floor. 

Melisande,  patting  down  a  pile  of  chiffon, 
seemed  to  be  amused  at  such  a  notion.  "Made- 
moiselle has  her  own  art.  Do  I  mix  myself  in 
that?"  she  cried,  waving  one  hand  towards  the 
great  malachite  casket. 

Zuleika  looked  at  the  casket,  and  then  very 
gratefully  at  the  maid.  Her  art — how  had  she 
forgotten  that?  Here  was  solace,  purpose.  She 
would  work  as  she  had  never  worked  yet.  She 
knezi-  that  she  had  it  in  her  to  do  better  than  she 
had  ever  done.  She  confessed  to  herself  that 
she  had  too  often  been  slack  in  the  matter  of 
practice  and  rehearsal,  trusting  her  personal  mag- 
netism to  carry  her  through.  Only  last  night 
she  had  badly  fumbled,  more  than  once.  Her 
bravura  business  with  the  Demon  Egg-Cup  had 
been  simply  vile.  The  audience  hadn't  noticed  it, 
perhaps,  but  she  had.  Now  she  would  perfect 
herself.  Barely  a  fortnight  now  before  her  en- 
gagement at  the  Folies  Bergeres!  What  if — no, 
she  must  not  think  of  that!  But  the  thought  in- 
sisted. What  if  she  essayed  for  Paris  that  which 
again  and  again  she  had  meant  to  graft  on  to  her 
repertory — the  Provoking  Thimble? 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  353 

She  flushed  at  the  possibility.  What  if  her 
whole  present  repertory  were  but  a  passing  phase 
In  her  art — a  mere  beginning — an  earlier  man- 
ner? She  remembered  how  marvellously  last 
night  she  had  manipulated  the  ear-rings  and  the 
studs.  Then  lo!  the  light  died  out  of  her  eyes, 
and  her  face  grew  rigid.  That  memory  had 
brought  other  memories  in  its  wake. 

For  her,  when  she  fled  the  Broad,  Noaks'  win- 
dow had  blotted  out  all  else.  Now  she  saw  again 
that  higher  window,  saw  that  girl  flaunting  her 
ear-rings,  gibing  down  at  her.  "He  put  them  in 
with  his  own  hands!" — the  words  rang  again  in 
her  ears,  making  her  cheeks  tingle.  Oh,  he  had 
thought  it  a  very  clever  thing  to  do,  no  doubt — 
a  splendid  little  revenge,  something  after  his  own 
heart!  "And  he  kissed  me  in  the  open  street" — 
excellent,  excellent !  She  ground  her  teeth.  And 
these  doings  must  have  been  fresh  in  his  mind 
when  she  overtook  him  and  walked  with  him  to 
the  house-boat!  Infamous!  And  she  had  then 
been  wearing  his  studs!  She  drew  his  attention 
to  them  when 

Her  jewel-box  stood  open,  to  receive  the  jewels 
she  wore  to-night.  She  went  very  calmly  to  it. 
There,  in  a  corner  of  the  topmost  tray,  rested  the 
two  great  white  pearls — the  pearls  which,  in  one 
way  and  another,  had  meant  so  much  to  her. 

"Melisande!" 

"Mademoiselle?" 


354  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

"When  we  go  to  Paris,  would  you  like  to  make 
a  little  present  to  your  fiance?" 

"Je  voudrais  bien,  mademoiselle." 

"Then  you  shall  give  him  these,"  said  Zuleika, 
holding  out  the  two  studs. 

"Mais  jamais  de  la  vie!  Chez  Tourtel  tout 
le  monde  le  dirait  millionaire.  Un  garden  de  cafe 
qui  porte  au  plastron  des  pedes  pareilles — 
merci !" 

"Tell  him  he  may  tell  every  one  that  they 
were  given  to  me  by  the  late  Duke  of  Dorset, 
and  given  by  me  to  you,  and  by  you  to  him." 

Mais "  The  protest  died  on   Melisande's 

lips.  Suddenly  she  had  ceased  to  see  the  pearls 
as  trinkets  finite  and  inapposite — saw  them  as 
things  presently  transmutable  into  little  marble 
tables,  bocks,  dominos,  absinthes  au  sucre,  shiny 
black  portfolios  with  weekly  journals  in  them, 
yellow  staves  with  daily  journals  flapping  from 
them,  vermouths  sees,  vermouths  cassis  .   .   . 

"Mademoiselle  is  too  amiable,"  she  said,  tak- 
ing the  pearls. 

And  certainly,  just  then,  Zuleika  was  looking 
very  amiable  Indeed.  The  look  was  transient. 
Nothing,  she  reflected,  could  undo  what  the  Duke 
had  done.  That  hateful,  impudent  girl  would 
take  good  care  that  every  one  should  know.  "He 
put  them  in  with  his  own  hands."  Her  ear-rings! 
"He  kissed  me  In  the  public  street.  He  loved 
me".   .   .  Well,    he    had    called    out    "Zuleika!" 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  355 

and  every  one  around  had  heard  him.  That  was 
something.  But  how  glad  all  the  old  women 
in  the  world  would  be  to  shake  their  heads  and 
say  "Oh,  no,  my  dear,  believe  me !  It  wasn't 
anything  to  do  with  her.  I'm  told  on  the  very  best 
authority,"  and  so  forth,  and  so  on.  She  knew  he 
had  told  any  number  of  undergraduates  he  was 
going  to  die  for  her.  But  they,  poor  fellows, 
could  not  bear  witness.  And  good  heavens!  If 
there  were  a  doubt  as  to  the  Duke's  motive,  why 
not  doubts  as  to  theirs?  .  .  But  many  of  them 
had  called  out  "Zuleika !"  too.  And  of  course  any 
really  impartial  person  who  knew  anything  at 
all  about  the  matter  at  first  hand  would  be  sure 
in  his  own  mind  that  it  was  perfectly  absurd  to 
pretend  that  the  whole  thing  wasn't  entirely  and 
absolutely  for  her  .  .  .  And  of  course  some  of 
the  men  must  have  left  written  evidence  of  their 
intention.  She  remembered  that  at  The  Mac- 
Quern's  to-day  was  a  Mr.  Craddock,  who  had 
made  a  will  in  her  favour  and  wanted  to  read  it 
aloud  to  her  in  the  middle  of  luncheon.  Oh, 
there  would  be  proof  positive  as  to  many  of  the 
men.  But  of  the  others  it  would  be  said  that  they 
died  in  trying  to  rescue  their  comrades.  There 
would  be  all  sorts  of  silly  far-fetched  theories, 
and  downright  lies  that  couldn't  be  disproved.  .  . 
"Melisande,  that  crackling  of  tissue  paper  is 
driving  me  mad!  Do  leave  off!  Can't  you  see 
that  I  am  waiting  to  be  undressed?" 


356  ZULEIKA    DOBSOX 

The  maid  hastened  to  her  s'ule,  and  with  quiek 
light  fingers  began  to  undress  her.  "Made- 
moiselle va  bien  dorniir — ca  se  volt,"  she  purred, 

"I  shan't,"  said  Zuleika. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  soothing  to  be  undressed, 
and  yet  more  soothing  anon  to  sit  merely  night- 
gowned  before  the  mirror,  while,  slowly  and 
gently,  strongly  and  strand  by  strand,  Melisande 
brushed  her  hair. 

After  all,  it  didn't  so  much  matter  what  the 
world  thought.  Let  the  world  whisper  and  Insinu- 
ate what  It  would.  To  slur  and  sully,  to  belittle 
and  drag  down — that  was  what  the  world  always 
tried  to  do.  But  great  things  were  still  great, 
and  fair  things  still  fair.  With  no  thought  for  the 
world's  opinion  had  these  men  gone  down  to  the 
water  to-day.  Their  deed  was  for  her  and  them- 
selves alone.  It  had  sufficed  them.  Should  it 
not  suffice  her?  It  did,  oh  it  did.  She  was  a 
wretch  to  have  repined. 

At  a  gesture  from  her,  Melisande  brought  to  a 
close  the  rhythmical  ministrations,  and — using 
no  tissue  paper  this  time — did  what  was  yet  to 
be  done  among  the  trunks. 

"/F^  know,  you  and  I,"  Zuleika  whispered  to 
the  adorable  creature  In  the  mirror;  and  the 
adorable  creature  gave  back  her  nod  and  smile. 

They  knew,  these  two. 

Yet,  In  their  happiness,  rose  and  floated  a 
shadow  between  them.     It  was  the  ghost  of  that 


ZULEIKA   DOBSON  357 

one  man  who — they  knew — had  died  irrelevantly, 
with  a  cold  heart. 

Came  also  the  horrid  little  ghost  of  one  who 
had  died  late  and  unseemly. 

And  now,  thick  and  fast,  swept  a  whole  multi- 
tude of  other  ghosts,  the  ghosts  of  all  them  who, 
being  dead,  could  not  die  again;  the  poor  ghosts 
of  them  who  had  done  what  they  could,  and  could 
do  no  more. 

No  more?  Was  it  not  enough?  The  lady  in 
the  mirror  gazed  at  the  lady  in  the  room,  re- 
proachfully at  first,  then — for  were  they  not  sis- 
ters?— relentingly,  then  pityingly.  Each  of  the 
two  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

And  there  recurred,  as  by  stealth,  to  the  lady  in 
the  room  a  thought  that  had  assailed  her  not  long 
ago  in  Judas  Street  ...  a  thought  about  the 
power  of  example  .   .   . 

And  now,  with  pent  breath  and  fast-beating 
heart,  she  stood  staring  at  the  lady  of  the  mirror, 
without  seeing  her;  and  now  she  wheeled  round 
and  swiftly  glided  to  that  little  table  on  which 
stood  her  two  books.     She  snatched  Bradshaw. 

We  always  intervene  between  Bradshaw  and 
any  one  whom  we  see  consulting  him.  "Made- 
moiselle will  permit  me  to  find  that  which  she 
seeks?"  asked  Melisande. 

"Be  quiet,"  said  Zuleika.  We  always  repulse, 
at  first,  any  one  who  intervenes  between  us  and 
Bradshaw. 


358  ZULEIKA    DOBSON 

We  always  end  by  accepting  the  intervention. 
"See  if  it  is  possible  to  go  direct  from  here  to 
Cambridge,"  said  Zuleika,  handing  the  book  on. 
"If  it  isn't,  then — well,  see  how  one  docs  get 
there." 

We  never  have  any  confidence  in  the  intervener. 
Nor  is  the  intervener,  when  it  comes  to  the  point, 
sanguine.  With  mistrust  mounting  to  exasper- 
ation Zuleika  sat  watching  the  faint  and  frantic 
researches  of  her  maid. 

"Stop!"  she  said  suddenly.  "I  have  a  much 
better  idea.  Go  down  very  early  to  the  station. 
See  the  station-master.  Order  me  a  special  train. 
For  ten  o'clock,  say." 

Rising,  she  stretched  her  arms  above  her  head. 
Her  lips  parted  in  a  yawn,  met  in  a  smile.  With 
both  hands  she  pushed  back  her  hair  from  her 
shoulders,  and  twisted  it  into  a  loose  knot.  Very 
lightly  she  slipped  up  into  bed,  and  very  soon  she 
was  asleep. 


WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 

The  Usurper 

•♦Contains  the  hall-mark  of  genius  itself.  The  plot  is  masterly  ia 
conception,  the  descriptions  are  all  vivid  flashes  from  a  brilliant 
pen.  It  is  impossible  to  read  and  not  marvel  at  the  skilled  work- 
manship and  the  constant  dramatic  intensity  of  the  incident,  situ- 
ations and  climax." —  The  Boston  Herald. 

Derelicts 

**  Mr.  Locke  tells  his  story  in  a  very  true,  a  very  moving,  and  a 
very  noble  book.  If  any  one  can  read  the  last  chapter  with  dry 
eyes  we  shall  be  surprised.  •  Derelicts  *  is  an  impressive,  an  im- 
portant book.  Yvonne  is  a  creation  that  any  artist  might  be  proud 
oi."—TAe  Daily  Chronicle, 

Idols 

"One  of  the  very  few  distinguished  novels  of  this  present  book 

season." — The  Daily  Mail. 

*A  brilliantly  written  and  eminently  readable  book." 

—  The  London  Daily  Tele^aph, 

A  Study  in  Shadows 

"Mr.  Locke  has  achieved  a  distinct  success  in  this  novel.  He  has 
struck  many  emotional  chords,  and  struck  them  all  with  a  firm, 
sure  hand.  In  the  relations  between  Katherine  and  Raine  he  had 
a  delicate  problem  to  handle,  and  he  has  handled  it  delicately. 

—  The  Daily  Chronicle, 

The  White  Dove 

"It  is  an  interesting  story.  The  characters  are  strongly  conceived 
and  vividly  presented,  and  the  dramatic  moments  are  powerfully 
realized." — The  Morning  Post. 

The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

**  Think  of  Locke's  clever  books.  Then  think  of  a  book  as  differ* 
ent  from  any  of  these  as  one  can  well  imagine — that  will  be  Mr. 
Locke's  new  book." — New  York  World 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria 

"William  J.  Locke's  novels  are  nothing  if  not  unusuai  They  ar« 
marked  by  a  quaint  originality.  The  habitual  novel  reader  inevi* 
tably  is  grateful  for  a  refreshing  sense  of  escaping  the  commoik 
place  path  of  conclusion." — Chicago  Record- Herald. 

\i 


THE    COMPLETE   WORKS 

OF 

WILLIAM   J.    LOCKE 

"Life   is   a   glorious   thing." — /r.   /.    Locke 

"If  you  wish  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  petty  cares  of  to-day,  read  one 
of  Locke's  novels.  You  may  select  any  from  the  following  titles 
and  be  certain  of  meeting  some  new  and  delightful  friends.  His 
characters  are  worth  knowing.  " — Baltimore  Sun. 

The  Morale  of  Marcus  Ordeyne  The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayro 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria  The  Beloved  Vagabond 

A  Study  In  Shadow*  The  White  Dove 

Simon  tho  Jester  The  Usurper 

Where  Love  la  Septimus 

Deralicts  Idols 

The  Glory  of  Clementina 

12mo.  Cloth.         $1.50  each 

Thirteen  volumes  bound  In  green  cloth.      Uniform  edition  in  box. 
$19.00  per  set.     Half  Morocco  $50.00  net.     Express  prepaid. 

Simon  the  Jester 

(Profusely  illustrated  by  James  Montgomt.ry  Flagg) 
"It  has  all  the  charm  and  surprise  of  his  famous  'Simple  Septimus.' 
It  Is  a  novel  full  of  wit  and  action  and  life.  The  characters  are  all 
out-of-the-ordinary  and  splendidly  depicted;  and  the  end  is  an 
artistic  triumph — a  fitting  climax  for  a  story  tliat's  full  of  cliarm 
and  surprise.  '* — American  Magazine. 

The  Beloved  Vagabond 

"  'The  Beloved  Vagabond'  Is  a  gently-written,  fascinating  tale. 
Make  his  acquaintance  some  dreary,  rain-soaked  evening  and  find 
the  vagabond  nerve-thrilling  in  your  own  heart.  " 

— Chicago  Record-Herald, 

Septimus  (illustrated  by  James  Montgomery  Flagg) 

"Septimus  is  the  joy  of  the  year. " — American  Magazine. 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"One  of  those  rare  and  much-to-be-desired  stories  which  keep  one 
divided  between  an  interested  impatience  to  get  on  and  an  irresis- 
tible temptation  to  linger  for  full  enjoyment  by  the  way.  " — Life. 

Where  Love  Is 

"  One  of  those  unusual  novels  of  which  the  end  is  as  good  as  the 
beginning." — Nenv  York  Globe. 


EDEN    PHILLPOTTS 

Demeter's  Daughter 

Cloth.      12mo.     $1.35  net.     Postage  12  cents 

"A  study  of  human  nature  and  human  life  In  their  wider  signi- 
ficance. The  story  has  a  universal  meaning  in  the  figure  of  its 
mother  woman,  daughter  of  earth.  .  .  .  It  is  worthy  of  the 
best  of  Mr.  Phillpotts's  books — a  strong,  sincere,  excellent  work." 

— Neiv  York  Tribune. 

"Every  moment  of  the  story  is  alive.  Everybody  in  it  is  reality 
itself.  Not  to  have  read  'Demeter's  Daughter'  is  not  to  know 
Eden  Phillpotts." — Boston  Transcript. 

The  Thief  of  Virtue  Cloth.     12mo.     $1.50 

"A  veritable  page  from  the  history  of  humanity.  Marvelously 
real  are  his  people." — Nenvark  E'vening  Neivs. 

"The  Balzac  of  Dartmoor.  " — Nenv  York  World. 

The  Haven  Cloth.     12mo.    $1.50 

"It  Is  obvious  from  'The  Haven'  that  Mr.  Phillpotts's  powers  of 
invention,  his  ability  to  vivify  character  in  words,  his  comprehension 
of  the  thoughts  of  men,  and,  best  of  all,  his  skill  in  the  telling  of 
a  story,  are  at  the  highest." — Boston  Transcript. 

Tales  of  the  Tenements  Cloth,     12mo.    $1.50 

"Remarkable  stories,  and  they  once  more  display  their  author's 
gift  of  vivid  delineation.  Mr.  Phillpotts  indulges  his  rare  gift  of 
nature  painting,  but  always  with  regard  to  its  necessities  as  a  human 
background." — The  Argonaut. 

Wild  Fruit  Cloth.      12mo.     $1.50  net.      Postage  10 cents 

"Mr.  Phillpotts  Is  an  accomplished  poet,  who  in  his  new  volume, 
'Wild  Fruit,'  carries  forward  the  torch  dropped  by  Swinburne  and 
Meredith.     In  verse  as  in  prose  Mr.  Phillpotts  is  an  artist." 

— Nenjo  York  Times. 


EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 


The  Thief  of  Virtue  cloth.    l2mo.    $1.50 

"  If  living  characters,  perfect  plot  construction,  imaginative  breadth 
of  canvas  and  absolute  truth  to  life  are  the  primary  qualities  of  great 
realistic  fiction,  Mr.  Phillpotts  is  one  of  the  greatest  novelists  of  the 
day.  .  .  •  He  goes  on  turning  out  one  brilliant  novel  after 
another,  steadily  accomplishing  for  Devon  what  Mr.  Hardy  did  for 
Wessex.  This  is  another  of  Mr.  Phillpotts'  Dartmoor  novels,  and 
one  tliat  will  rank,  with  his  best.  .  .  Something  of  kinship  with 
*  King  Lear'  and  '  Fere  Goriot.'  "  Chicago  Record  Herald. 

"The  Balzac  of  Dartmore.  It  is  easy  and  true  to  say  that  Mr. 
Phillpotts  in  all  his  work  has  done  no  single  piece  of  portraiture 
betterthan  this  presentation  of  Philip  Ouldsbroom.  .  .  A  triumph 
of  the  novelist's  understanding  and  keen  drawing.  .  .  A  Dart- 
moor background  described  in  terms  of  an  artist's  deeply  felt 
appreciation.  — Ncvu  York  World. 

"No  other  English  writer  has  painted  such  facinating  and  colorful 
word-pictures  of  Dartmoor's  heaths  and  hills,  woods  and  vales,  and 
billowy  plains  of  pallid  yellow  and  dim  green.  Few  others  have 
attempted  such  vivid  character-portrayal  as  marks  this  latest  work 
from  begiiming  to  end."  Ihe  North  American. 

*' A  strong  book,  flashing  here  and  there  with  beautiful  gems  of 
poetry.  .  .  Providing  endless  food  for  thought.  .  .  An  in- 
tellectual treat. ' '  — London  E'vening  Standard. 

The  Haven  cloth.    i2mo.    $1.50 

"The  foremost  English  novelist  with  the  one  exception  of  Thomas 
Hardy.  .  .  His  descriptions  of  the  sea  and  his  characterization 
of  the  fisher  folks  are  picturesqne,  true  to  life,  full  of  humorous 
phDosophy."         — JeannetieL.  Gilder  in  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

"It  is  no  dry  bones  of  a  chronicle,  but  touched  by  genius  to  life 
and  vividness.  "  — Louis'ville,  Kentucky,  Post. 

"A  close,  thoughtful  study  of  universal  human  nature." 

—The  Outlook. 

"  One  of  the  best  of  this  author's  many  works."     — The  Bookman. 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


Li^^in 


MARl  1984 


Series  9482 


II 

A  A  001  417  145  8 


3  1205  00522  4736 


^ 


